


The Unmarked Mixtape

by midnighteverlark



Series: The Red Envelope [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 18 by the end, 80s Music, 80s movies, Aged-Up Character(s), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Mike Wheeler, Boyfriends, Byeler - Freeform, Coming Out, Dates, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Fluff and Smut, Gay Will Byers, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secret Relationship, Will Byers Has Powers, byler, keep your eyes on Karen there's some very unresolved shit going on there, they're like 17 in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 05:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14993828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnighteverlark/pseuds/midnighteverlark
Summary: The impossible happened: Will asked Mike to be his boyfriend. Even stranger? Mike said yes.That's how it started. A letter, an accidental confession, a Saturday afternoon. And that? That was the easy part.Now, what they do - what they are - is secret. Because if anyone finds out... they don't even want to imagine. Lonnie would kill them both on sight. Mike's parents would send him away to some boarding school. They'd never see each other again. They'd be marked forever. Everything would come crashing down around them.But they try not to focus on that. They're busy, after all, trying to navigate this new relationship. Kisses, dates, prom, couples' quarrels. And in the meantime, Will has a problem on his hands; a power he needs to learn to control, before it blows up in his face.It's a crazy end to their school year - but there's more going on behind the scenes than they realize.(This is a sequel to The Red Envelope but you don't necessarily have to have read TRE; this can be read on its own should you wish :) )





	1. Sleepover

Mike hisses and Will flinches back, grimacing with guilt. He keeps forgetting about Mike’s ribs. They’re still pretty badly bruised from Troy and his henchmen kicking him while he was down. Bastards.

“‘Sokay,” Mike breathes, and leans into Will’s space again. He keeps saying that. _It’s okay, I’m fine, it’s nothing._ He likes to play tough. Like it doesn’t bother him. But Will sees him wince whenever he moves wrong. It’s better than it was a few days ago at least.

He guides Will’s cupped palms back to his sides, where Will lets them rest - gingerly, this time - on the firm curve of ribs under flesh. His fingers splay, feeling their way over the skin-warmed fabric of Mike’s tee shirt.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. Being allowed to touch. He spent so long wanting, with no expectation of ever actually getting to live out his fantasy, that now he has to remind himself each time. It’s okay. He can do this. He can scoot closer, run his palms from ribs to spine, catch Mike’s lower lip between his teeth.

The old The Knack cassette catches and pops, tape worn thin from years of use. They selected it at random. Neither one has particularly been paying attention. Now, as the music starts to fizzle slightly over the same lyrics that it always does, Will’s socked foot bumps against a warm, fuzzy form. The form huffs and paws at their legs. He breaks the kiss with a laugh and reaches down to scratch behind Chester’s ears.

“Not getting enough attention?” he says, and Chester lolls his tongue out contentedly. Mike leans down to scrub a palm down the dog’s back. Chester flops over and begs for a belly rub with head thrown back, watching them upside-down. He’s starting to get old, Will reflects as their makeout session is put on pause. Silver hairs are spreading through the white of his muzzle and eyebrows. Chester licks his wrist as Will tries to trace the gray hairs with his fingers.

It’s a good day. Fridays almost always are, after all, but this one especially. The morning was gray and damp, prompting Will to show up to school in the brown sweater Mike left behind a few days ago - a fact that did not go unnoticed by Mike, and caused a slew of elbowing and flushed cheeks and sharp whispers. _What if they notice?_ he hissed, but either the Party didn’t make the connection or didn’t pay it much mind.

The clouds cleared up by the early afternoon, but Will kept the sweater on anyway, despite it being just this side of too warm. It smells like Mike. Old Spice bar soap and warm skin and the Wheeler’s basement.

Technically, Mike is grounded.

Well, if you want to be exact about it, they’re both grounded. Despite the fact that the fight was entirely Troy’s fault, Mike didn’t even get one good hit in, and Will -

Well.

They’ve both been grounded since Tuesday.

But Joyce just raised a brow, shook her head, and waved Mike in when he showed up at the door. She did, however, collect a door tax: a handful of the peanut M&Ms Mike brought for the movie later. So they should be in the clear. Karen is visiting some friends tonight, and Mike slipped out of the house yelling, _“Be-at-Will’s-back-tomorrow-bye!”_ to Ted, hoping that either his father didn’t know he was grounded, had forgotten, or didn’t care enough to stop him. And apparently at least one of those was true, because Mike wasn’t chased down or shouted after as he got on his bike and took off.

And now here they are. Kneeling beside Will’s bed, raining attention down on a tail-thumping, panting canine as Joyce hollers, “Boys! Dinner!”

Mike sneaks another kiss before they reach the door. Already far more casually than he would have two weeks ago, or even a week. Will’s skin tingles under the hem of his stolen sweater even after Mike has let go and reached for the door.

 _Can you believe it’s almost been two weeks?_ Will wants to say, but they’re already on their way to the dining room. And besides, maybe that’s too sappy to actually say aloud. So instead he squeezes Mike’s hand one last time before they let go and round the corner.

* * *

 The taste of peanut butter M&Ms coats Will’s tongue. Sticky, colorful marks dot his left palm, barely discernible in the light of the TV screen. Will licks a long stripe up his palm, gaze focused somewhere beyond the movie. He wipes his hand on Mike’s arm and ignores the sound of protest.

Jonathan actually sat down to dinner with them for once. Usually he’s so busy with work shifts and homework and commuting to the college in the city that he’s not even home at dinnertime. Which means that today was a rare opportunity for attending to the little-brotherly duties of teasing, poking, checking in on, and relentlessly questioning the older sibling. Will did not let this opportunity slip through his fingers. And Jonathan, struck by a rare sunny mood, teased and poked right back. Dinner was jovial.

But Will was in a hurry to clear the table afterwards. He slipped Chester a scrap of chicken instead of scolding him for begging, and barely rinsed the plates before stacking them in the sink. Mike laughed at him as Will all but pulled them both into the living room. Maybe it should have faded by now. It’s been almost two weeks. But he can’t help it. It’s like he has to check, he has to make sure. That it all happened, it’s still real, that the last thirteen days weren’t just some elaborate and cruel trick of his imagination. And Mike hasn’t seemed to mind Will checking.

Will tunes back into the present and digs for another palmful of M&Ms.

It’s dark in the living room, the only light coming from the screen and the kitchen light above the sink. That glow is warm yellow but dim, especially from down the hall. They’re curled up in front of the couch, where the blue light of the TV dominates. Sprawled out in a nest of sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows. A bowl of popcorn and the bag of M&Ms sit in front of them, two clearly definable shapes in the softer shadows of the bedding. It’s comfortable. Familiar. The bedding is warm with their body heat, and they’ve watched this movie at least half a dozen times since it came out on VHS: _Stand By Me,_ one of Will’s current favorites.

But the breathless tension that hovers around them - that’s new. Like a fraying rope, seconds from whip-snapping. Because they’re curled up just a little too close. And their hands are joined, fingers shifting and playing absently. And if Will’s mother or brother happens to come out to say goodnight at the wrong moment - game over. Something shrivels up and squirms uncomfortably in the pit of Will’s gut. It’s a thought that keeps coming back, over and over, uninvited. That if they slip up - just _once_ \- one wrong word or gesture -

No. They won’t. Can’t. That can’t happen. A long breath spills through his parted lips. It won’t happen because he won’t _let_ it happen. He just got this. _They_ just got this. If someone found out, if their _parents_ found out - jesus, Lonnie would kill them both on sight. Mike’s parents would send him away to some boarding school, they’d never see each other again. And they’d be marked, forever, and -

No. He won’t let it happen. He’ll be careful; _they’ll_ be careful. Bad things happen to people like them, if they aren’t careful. Beatings and black eyes. Couples turned away at business doors on sight. Innocent people killed, attacked on the street, harassed and heckled. Sent away to be _cured,_ or so some people say. Brains shot through with electricity until -

Something moves through Will’s nerves like a roll of thunder on the horizon. The hair on his arms stands up. Power pools like saliva in his spine and the base of his skull. Gut-twisting, instinctual. He closes his eyes for a moment, forcing it down. The energy trembles and lapses back into nothing before it can reach his fingertips.

 _Not now,_ he tells himself sternly. _It’s okay. It’s not time for that._

It dissipates. Will releases the tension in his shoulders and they drop at least three inches. That was close. He can’t keep letting it get out of hand like that.

But he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t let go of Mike’s hand. He holds on a bit tighter, and breathes a little easier when Mike squeezes back. And maybe that’s the part that scares him the most.

Will closes the last inch or two between them and snuggles against Mike with a sigh. Then he deliberately focuses on the movie.

He successfully passes most of an hour with his eyes on the screen and his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder. They pipe up occasionally, pointing something out or commenting on an old-fashioned detail of the 50s setting, but apparently Mike has a lot to think about too. They’re unusually quiet through most of it. That suits Will just fine; he’s content where he is. But then the movie comes to its last half hour and Will’s mind goes wandering off again. It goes from Chris to Mike to River Phoenix to Chris again.

Mike. Mike is like Chris. A best friend. A leader. Honorable, kind. Undeniably good-looking.

God, he hopes he doesn’t fuck this up.

Because if he does, that’s not just his boyfriend he’d lose - his _first_ boyfriend, mind you, _and_ his longtime crush - but his best friend in the world. Mike. Mike’s distinctive, contagious laugh. His somewhat adorable bouts of grumpiness when he’s hungry. His stories and campaigns brewing in his head, jotted down on scraps of paper and the backs of envelopes. Gone in one swift, grim swoop.

He _really_ hopes he doesn’t fuck this up.

But for right now - for _right_ now - nothing is wrong. Will tells himself that over and over as the movie winds down, like a mantra. Nothing is wrong. It’s okay. They’re okay. It’s Friday night. He’s safe at home. They have peanut butter M &Ms and a little popcorn left. They’re finishing up the first movie of the night and already digging around in Mike’s backpack for the second: the Wheeler’s barely-touched VHS of _Nightmare on Elm Street_ . (The original, of course. They agreed long ago that all the sequels have mainly been garbage.) Will’s mother and then brother retired to their respective rooms long ago, so the sound has been turned down, and they whisper together as they rewind _Stand By Me._

Will makes it about fifteen minutes into _Nightmare on Elm Street_ before he gives in and pulls Mike’s mouth to his. He needs this. He managed to get himself all strung tight and now -

Mike presses back immediately. He tastes like chocolate and oily popcorn butter and the stale sweetness of the soda he finished an hour and a half ago. He lets out a little puff of breath as they turn, fumbling for a moment for a more comfortable position without breaking contact.

Will’s heart is pounding. Skin prickling with heat that wells up from within him. There’s an energy in the air of the living room, tangible, like static or humidity right before a huge storm. Like if Will raked his fingers through the empty space in front of them he’d feel it brushing through the spaces between his fingers. Secrets dart in the air around them, filling the dim space until it feels crowded, wriggling against Will’s skin. His tongue darts into Mike’s mouth in turn. A soft groan escapes Mike’s throat before he cuts it off, and Will smiles into the kiss.

Onscreen, Johnny Depp and - who’s the actress? Heather something? - are talking back and forth, but Will isn’t even processing the dialogue. It fades to background noise as Mike’s scent washes over him.

This is how it’s been, since that Saturday. During the day, everything is normal. They talk, they hang around the party, they ride their bikes side-by-side like always. Aside from the meaningful glances and the occasional game of footsie under the table, or the briefest of touches on the arm or shoulder, everything is as it’s always been. The Party is relieved to have their Paladin and Cleric on good terms again, after that week of tension, and life goes on as usual. Until they’re alone. And then it’s... well. It’s like this. Impatient, borderline needy. Touching constantly, conversations devolving into kissing. It’s been difficult the past few days, being grounded and all. Maybe that’s why they’re so fervent now - or maybe it can all be chalked up to teenage hormones. Either way, Will has no complaints.

He feels good, in moments like these. In-control. Giddy. When his stomach is abuzz with _this is secret, this is forbidden, this isn’t supposed to be happening but it is._ Nerves awash with an equally potent mix of _don’t let them catch you, don’t let them see you, don’t let them see, don’t let them -_

When he can feel his pulse in his temples and fingertips. When Mike is just _melting_ under his touch. When he can make his boyfriend tilt his head or open his mouth or lie back against the rumpled mess of blankets with only the slightest touch, no words necessary. It’s a small power, but it’s dizzying. Addictive. Makes Will want to crawl right on top of Mike’s tall, lanky form and dig his fingers into his flesh, makes him want to _bite_ and _claim_ and _take._ Will’s fingers twitch into fists. God. Mike trusts him so much - doesn’t he? It’s an odd realization, but undeniable now that it has struck. Mike is trusting him with everything right now. Neck loose as a noodle, throat exposed, letting Will lead the kiss with a palm snugged to his jaw. Hands moving over Will’s torso. And, god, he’s gorgeous. All ivory-pale skin, made almost ghoulishly white in the glow of the screen, and dark-wavy-curly hair, and that dusting of freckles. Faint but _everywhere._

Will wants to see just how far those freckles go. He wants to curl his fingers around the knobby bones of Mike’s wrists and drag his hands over his head, pin them there, hold him down and -

His hand lands on Mike’s ribs and Mike twists away with a clipped grunt.

Will falls back.

_Fuck._

He’s breathing hard enough that he can feel his stomach caving in with every exhale, muscles aching under his skin. He’s hard. He hops off Mike’s lap and wonders when he got there, face radiating heat. He wonders if Mike could feel it just moments ago, when their faces were pressed together, mouths moving urgently.

Will draws his knees to his chest. Mike sits up, confused.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Sorry. Forgot about the bruises.”

Mike tosses his head with a glib - and false - smile. “It’s fine, it doesn’t really hurt anymore. Just looks grody.”

 _Which is why you flinched, right?_ Will thinks, but just turns to face the screen again. He lets Mike toss an arm around his shoulders, but doesn’t uncurl until he’s calmed down. God, he’s a moron. He has _got_ to stop doing that. Mike isn’t like him - not completely, at least. He said it himself: he likes both. Boys and girls. He doesn’t want the same kind of things Will does - he wouldn’t. If he knew the things that go through Will’s mind when they’re making out, he’d freak.

Which is fine. Just as long as those thoughts stay in Will’s mind. They can’t do any harm there. But he has to keep control. Mike has risked so much already doing this, given him so much more than Will ever dared hope. He knows that. And that’s enough - more than enough. It really is. Just as long as he keeps in control.

* * *

It’s approximately 2:30am when they finally turn off Will’s old Atari. They’ve consumed a truly irresponsible amount of peanut M&Ms and soda and ridden the sugar high all the way through its various stages of _giggly, slap-happy, hyper,_ and _abrupt crash_. Now they’re finally stumbling their way towards bed.

Will stands in the middle of the dark living room, scrubbing the pads of his fingers over his eyes as Mike gathers up the popcorn bowl and other detritus and piles it aside.

“You wanna sleep in my room?” he says. He wasn’t really thinking about the words when they came out of his mouth; he’s just tired, and not really thinking straight, and his bed sounds so much better than the living room floor right now.

“Sure,” Mike agrees, and they drag the sleeping bags past the stripe of yellow light from the kitchen and through the outline of Will’s door. It’s as they’re closing the door behind them that logic catches up to him.

“You know, it’s kind of stupid to use these. I mean, there’s a bed.”

Mike shrugs and clicks on one of Will’s lava lamps for light. They’re talking under their breath, aware of the late hour of the night - er, morning - and the thin walls. “I always sleep on the floor.”

“You don’t... have to.”

Will’s feet rub together where he stands on the nubbly carpet. Nerves have kick-started his heart again and settled a tart ache right at the base of his skull. But he already said it. And Mike’s head is tilted in consideration.

He’s seconds away from taking it back somehow, trying to undo the damage - it’s probably way too soon for that, right? He probably just made things awkward. He definitely just made things awkward. Goddamnit. Alright, this is fine, he can fix this, he’ll just say it was a joke or -

“Okay. I’m gonna brush my teeth.”

And with that Mike drops his sleeping bag in an unceremonious lump, grabs his toothbrush from his backpack, and pads off to the bathroom.

The nerves migrate to Will’s stomach and sink their claws in, sharp and stubborn, as the two boys take turns in the bathroom and arrive back in the pink-hued semi-darkness of Will’s room. The lava lamp gives just enough light to navigate by, and the room is still dark enough that Will can make out the spangling of green-ish glow-in-the-dark stars in the far corners.

He wobbles for a moment on his left foot, the right pressed over his cold toes. Then he realizes he’s waiting for no reason, and clambers into bed. The mattress tilts and squeaks as Mike’s weight sinks into the other side. For a few moments, they shift and fumble with the covers, getting settled. Then it’s still. Quiet.

“Night,” Will blurts, awkwardly.

“Night,” Mike says back.

And then Will spends the next fifteen minutes wide awake, despite the time.

They’re not on opposite ends of the mattress, but they’re not exactly cuddled up together, either. Still, Mike is here. In Will’s bed. He can feel his warmth radiating across the small space between them, filling the bubble under the blankets. One of his feet grazes Will’s calf. Will can make out his scent - his natural scent. It’s been a long day since this morning’s shower, and the manmade scents of soap and shampoo and cologne have been worn away, and now it’s just _him._ Something warm and organic and as familiar as Will’s own face in the mirror. Like skin and sunlight and the Wheeler’s laundry soap and a hint of musk.

Will doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to disturb this. Somehow, it feels so incredibly fragile. Maybe Mike is asleep already, because his breathing is rhythmic. Soft and steady and reassuring as the waves on the pebble beach that the Byers visit every year or so.

How is he supposed to sleep like this? This is like his most pathetic daydreams come to life. How many times when he was twelve, thirteen, fourteen - hell, _always -_ did he wish so desperately for this exact scenario? That Mike would just climb up from the sleeping bag beside the bed and slip under the covers? It never did happen though. The closest they ever came was that humiliating moment during a Party camping trip. When they had to share a sleeping bag, thanks to Will dropping his in the stream. He woke early the next morning to find himself cuddled up to Mike’s back, forehead pressed to the back of Mike’s neck. It was one of the most mortifying moments of his life to date, and he had never been so grateful to look around and find everyone else still asleep.

Will’s pulse calms gradually. Mike _is_ asleep. He hasn’t moved a muscle in a long time, except for his foot twitching occasionally against Will’s leg. Will turns onto his side - facing away from Mike this time so that the events of the camping trip can’t be repeated - and relaxes into the mattress. A deep breath lifts and releases his ribcage.

Today was a good day.

* * *

 Of course, the universe can’t let that stand for long.

He’s mid-cry when he comes to, the noise clawing out of his mouth like a rat desperately scrabbling to escape a trap. His throat is dry, gummy, scratched. His voice dies in an ugly waver and he kicks at the - vines? - no, blankets - around his legs. He’s disoriented and it’s dark and oh god something is _touching him -_

His hand strikes something fleshy -

Energy bolts down his arm, leaving the whole appendage vaguely numb - like it fell asleep and is just getting the feeling back - it _zaps_ through his palm and -

“Ow!”

Will’s wildly flailing legs disentangle themselves from the sheets at the exact moment that he manages to lurch upright and flip over.

And see his boyfriend rubbing his upper arm with a grimace.

“I’m sorry!” Will rasps. Something catches in his throat and he has to swallow hard. He’s already groping over the bed, grabbing at Mike’s arm and moving his hand out of the way, searching for damage. The damage Will did. “I’m - Mike - are you okay? I’m so - god, I’m sorry -”

“What? No - Will - hey, Will. No, I’m fine. It was just a spark, it was nothing. Just surprised me. Pretty strong though.” He catches Will’s hand and massages a thumb into the soft spot in the center of his palm. “Probably got you pretty good too, huh? Staticky sheets.”

But Will can’t say anything. He can’t breathe. He’s breathing too _much_ \- can’t get a word in edgewise.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

_Slow down, slow down -_

Will curls into himself. He’s fighting his own lungs. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, he almost killed him. He could have hurt him. He could have killed him.

 _Control,_ something in his whispers, echoing a thought from hours ago. _You need to learn control._

And the nightmare -

He remembers it now. He had been running. Sprinting, pushed far beyond his body’s ability, legs flailing and nearly tangling, nearly giving out. It was after him again. You know, just the typical run-of-the-mill nightmare. Old memories, old scars. But it was bad this time. He couldn’t wake up, and something had grabbed him -

Mike. Mike had tried to wake him up. He must have been moving in his sleep, or making noise. So Mike shook him. And Will lashed out. Guilt sours in the back of his throat.

There’s a hand rubbing slow circles into his back, between his shoulder blades. Mike is talking. Quietly. Not really saying anything, just repeating things like, “Hey, slow down, okay?” and “Will,” and “I’ve got you.” The touch is grounding, and as the steel fist around Will’s diaphragm gradually loosens, he presses into Mike’s side. Gasping gives way to sobbing, which he struggles to shut down as fast as he can. Without much success.

 _Ugh,_ he inwardly sneers, _crying? Really? Could you be any more pathetic? Get a fucking grip, Byers._

So he does. Slowly. With Mike’s arms curled around his shoulders and his head braced in the curve of Mike’s throat.

“Sorry,” he whispers at last. He shifts his head minutely to see the clock. 4:11am. The lava lamp is still on. His mom always nags him about turning it off before he goes to sleep, but nothing’s caught fire yet.

Mike’s own head tilts down, his chin resting on Will’s hair. “It’s okay.” His legs stir, kicking the twisted blankets the rest of the way off. “Can we move, though? My spine is like two seconds from developing a permanent kink.”

Will chuckles and nods, and they slide down. They end up chest-to-chest, Will’s head pillowed on Mike’s shoulder, and he speaks into the collar of Mike’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Mike jostles him with the arm that’s curled over Will’s torso. “Nah.”

Will chews on his lower lip, then shrugs. He doesn’t have the energy to argue. Plus, now that he’s gotten his shit mostly back together, he’s actually comfortable enough to fall asleep again. But he doesn’t want to - not quite yet. The nightmare is too fresh in his mind.

Mike surprises him by speaking up again.

“Prom is next week.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Next Saturday, to be exact. The Party is going as a group - mostly to humor Max and Dustin, who actually enjoy those kinds of happenings. They’re going to get ice cream or something afterwards, and probably have a sleepover of some sort. They planned it weeks ago.

Mike breathes in, seems to reconsider, and then takes another breath. Will can’t see his face from this angle, but his voice is halting when he finally speaks. “I mean, hey - we could... yeah?”

It takes a moment for Will to process. Then he twists, half sitting up. The beginnings of a grin are tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You wanna go...”

Mike makes a gesture linking the two of them. “Together?”

“Like...”

“Like together together.”

“Like dates?”

“Yeah? I mean if -”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Totally. That - yeah. I’d - that’d be great.” Will’s head is bobbing, and the grin has fully broken through by now. Mike grins too. A curve of white teeth in the murky light of the lava lamp.

Mike nods back, still smiling. “Cool.”

Agreement reached, Will starts to lie back down on Mike’s chest. He reconsiders last minute, pops up, and presses a kiss to the grin on Mike’s mouth. Because he can. And because his sleep-deprived brain is just now catching up: prom. They’re going to prom together.

Mike’s kiss is sloppy with sleep, and Will has no doubt they’ll both be fully unconscious again in a matter of minutes. It is 4:14am after all.

* * *

 It’s 4:15am on the dot when Joyce eases her bedroom door closed behind her. Her left hand grips her glass of water so tightly she’s half afraid it might break. Her right hand is pressed hard over her mouth. She thinks she might be smiling, but she can’t quite tell. It could also be a grimace.

Joyce stands, stiff and frozen, in her dark bedroom. Then she tilts the glass of water to her mouth and chugs it in one go.

The door was cracked no more than a centimeter, but there’s no denying what she just saw. No other way to interpret the image. Her son just kissed Mike Wheeler full on the mouth.


	2. Blueberry Pancakes

The Byers’ household has always been, well... a disaster.

It’s the kind of house where, by New Years, the Christmas Tree is a crackly, dry fire hazard because no one remembered to water it. Where the car keys go missing on a daily basis because Joyce just throws them somewhere as soon as she gets through the door. Where they have the same meals nearly every week because that’s what she - and sometimes Jonathan - knows how to cook. (Friday is grilled chicken and mixed-veggies-from-a-frozen-bag night.) Where everything has a place, technically, but things drift around seemingly on their own, crayons making their way into every nook and cranny and half-empty mugs appearing on every surface. There are usually at least a few dishes stacked up on the counter. Nothing has been dusted in years.

Joyce tries - she really does. She wants to be a good mother. To have a neat, sparkling kitchen and perfectly styled hair and a large savings account and chewy, golden-brown cookies like Karen Wheeler. But her kitchen is in a perpetual state of disarray, and her hair turns out frizzy and unkempt no matter what she does to it, and between her and Jonathan they pay the bills alright but have little to nothing put away -

And what is she going to do when Will goes to college too, _what is she going to do_ -

And somehow her baking turns out lightly burned on the bottom no matter how attentively she watches the oven -

And a nagging voice in the back of her head that sounds hauntingly like her ex husband whispers, _You’ll never have your shit together, will you, Joyce? Can’t even run a goddamn household. You wanted to be an artist when you were little - do you remember? Now look at you._

Most days it’s all right. She takes one day at a time, and they get by. But today was rough. Everything seemed to happen all at once. A huge load of laundry, an unexpected bill, the car acting up, Chester getting ahold of an old photo album, Jim calling to reschedule for the second time this week... She didn’t even have the energy to fight it when Mike showed up at the door at a quarter to five, backpack clearly loaded up for a sleepover. Mike, who she knows for a fact is currently grounded. And that’s not to mention that Will is grounded too, and shouldn't be having friends over. But fuck it. It’s been three days, that’s... probably enough.

Maybe she is a bad mother.

It’s 4:09am when Joyce eases her bedroom door open and pads, barefoot, down the hallway. She needs water. She’s slept horribly. Worries and unfinished work kept her up late, visions of bills and bitchy customers swimming above her head as she tossed and turned. She went to bed just past 10:30, couldn’t sleep until midnight, and woke up around 1am. Turned over, worried some more, and drifted off. And then woke up again at 2:45, and now _again_ just past 4:00. And now she’s pissed. At this point she’s just waiting for the sun to rise so she can call the night a wash and drag herself to the coffee machine. But there are a couple hours before she can do that.

For now, water.

It’s the noise that catches her attention. Barely audible, but unmistakable: sniffling. The sound of nearly-repressed tears. She recognizes it instantly; how could she not? At seventeen weeks or seventeen years, no mother could ignore the sound of their child in distress. So, water in hand, she moves back down the hall and hovers just outside her youngest’s door. It’s cracked open, most likely by accident. In the past few years, the old hinges have developed a tendency of not _quite_ wanting to close. So sometimes if she’s passing by late at night, going to the restroom or the kitchen, she can see the tiniest sliver of Will’s room as she passes. Like now. Now she sees Will - wait - no, that’s not Will’s profile. That’s... she’s seeing... what _is_ she seeing?

By the pink-ish glow of Will’s largest lava lamp, she can make out a hair-thin slice of the scene. Will’s room. And his bed. And Mike Wheeler, in his bed, practically wrapped around her son.

She knows immediately that she should go. That this was not meant for her eyes. But she’s suddenly, irrationally afraid that if she moves she’ll be discovered. Her foot will fall on a creaking patch of floor, or the ice in her cup will clink. And she’ll have to explain why she’s hovering outside the door, clearly spying. Not that she meant to. But it’s not a conversation she’s eager to have - and she doesn’t imagine they’d be too pleased with it either. Or with her, for that matter.

So she freezes.

They’re whispering together. And now that she’s here, just outside the door, she can make out words if she really focuses. Which she shouldn’t. But Will was struggling to contain tears just moments ago, she’s sure of it, and she knows he still has nightmares sometimes, and -

It’s been years, but she can still hear the exact inflection in his voice, the exact way it broke over the last word - _I felt it. Everywhere._

She just needs to make sure he’s okay. She can’t help it. She’ll sneak back to her own room in just a second. Right now, actually. This is stupid. She’ll just step -

“Prom is next week,” Mike is saying.

Will hums an affirmative. Joyce shifts her weight and gets a better grip on her glass, readying herself to move swiftly and silently across the hall and to the safety of her own room. To the too-large bed, where she still sleeps on the left side despite having the entire mattress to herself. But something is holding her back. Something about that tiny glimpse of the boys curled up on Will’s bed, blankets a mess around them. Something seems off, somehow. Unfamiliar. Out of place.

Her eyes dart down. She can’t quite tell through the crack in the door, but she doesn’t think Mike’s usual sleeping bag is even there. And that’s - well, _wrong_ . Like a painfully flat note smack-dab in the middle of a familiar song. Mike _always_ sleeps beside the bed. He has for years. Ever since the Shadow.

They’re still talking.

“I mean, hey - we could... yeah?”

A rustle as Will moves. “You wanna go...”

Mike’s voice again. Nervous. “Together?”

“Like...”

“Like together together.”

Joyce drifts just an inch closer. _Together together?_ Something is niggling in the back of her brain.

“Like dates?”

“Yeah? I mean if -”

She moves even closer. Her brow bone almost touches the door frame, eye fit neatly to the gap. A strand of her hair is in her face, stuck to her cheek, but she doesn’t dare lift a hand to flick it off.

_Dates?_

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Totally. That - yeah. I’d - that’d be great.”

_Prom._

_Dates._

Joyce blinks. Blinks. And her eyes go wide. About half a dozen things coalesce and click into place all at once. Half-formed thoughts and images.

Her son’s eyes have always softened around his best friend, ever since they were little -

They were acting weird the night of the storm - she _knew_ they were -

And that notebook - the sketchbook she wasn’t meant to see, years ago -

“Cool,” Mike says.

Shit, she should go. She needs to leave. She never should have -

A blur of movement, and from her vantage point she’s at the perfect angle to see Will -

And she’s moving. Leaving. On her way down the hallway, through her bedroom door.

It’s 4:15am on the dot when Joyce eases her bedroom door closed behind her. Her left hand grips her glass of water so tightly she’s half afraid it might break. Her right hand is pressed hard over her mouth. She thinks she might be smiling, but she can’t quite tell. It could also be a grimace.

Joyce stands, stiff and frozen, in her dark bedroom. Then she tilts the glass of water to her mouth and chugs it in one go.

The door was cracked no more than a centimeter, but there’s no denying what she just saw. No other way to interpret the image. Her son just kissed Mike Wheeler full on the mouth.

Joyce moves to her bed and sits, gingerly. She sets the cup on her nightstand; her fingers splay out over the knees of her threadbare fleece pajamas.

When was it that Will killed that spider? They must have been - what - five? Maybe six. But it wasn’t too long after they met. They were very small - Will especially. When Jonathan tells the story he swears it was a black widow, but it wasn’t. It was a brown recluse. She had plenty of time to identify it as she wiped the half-squished remains into the trash.

Maybe it’s a mom thing, but it takes absolutely no effort at all to summon up that little voice in her memory -

* * *

_“Don’t move, Mikey! I’m coming!”_

_Joyce’s finger pauses on the page of her book. That’s a different tone. That’s a_ serious _tone - not the play-serious of imaginary peril, but real urgency._

_Will swoops through the back door before she’s even up from her chair._

_“Sweetheart? Is something the m-”_

_But he’s gone again. Scrawny legs pumping, hair flopping all over his face. Snatching the fly swatter from the wall and skittering through the screen door and out of sight._

_“Hey, watch the door!” Lonnie shouts from a room away as the screen screeches and slams, bouncing back before it settles on its hinges. Will doesn’t even shout back a “sorry.”_

_Joyce hesitates, marks her page, and pursues._

_It’s too damn hot to be outside, in her opinion, but the boys wouldn’t hear of playing indoors. It was enough of a battle to get sunscreen on them, much less convince them to come in. They’ve been having a riotous time chasing back and forth in the yard, water guns bared, squealing and giggling and getting nicely covered in mud, grass stains and hose water. But now the door to the largest shed hangs open. And Jonathan - who was_ supposed _to be watching them - is nowhere to be seen. And Will’s muddy yellow shirt is disappearing through that door._

_His voice sounds out again, pitched high. A rough little, “Ow!”_

_Joyce’s quickening pace carries her through the door of the shed in time to see Will pick himself up. Red is starting to well up at his knee, where the skin clearly met the rough floor with painful, unforgiving abruptness. Will doesn’t seem to notice. He’s sidling towards a corner of the shed with the fly swatter held out in front of him._

_Her eyes adjust, and the shape of Mike Wheeler appears in the far corner. He’s curled up halfway between some storage boxes and an upturned wheelbarrow, cowering from a gauzy shred of something white-ish just beside his own knee._

_A speck moves over the white gauze and Mike gives a full-body shudder, cheeks already wet and splotched red._

_And Joyce understands._

_And doesn’t understand, at the same time._

_Will hates spiders. Hates them more than snakes, more than bees. Refuses to go anywhere near them. He gasps or shrieks whenever he runs afoul of one. But now he inches closer and closer, standing over the half-torn web with his jaw set._

_Three things happen at once. Jonathan’s footsteps skid through the door; Joyce darts forward, reaching for Will; and Will brings the fly swatter down with a whistle and a satisfying_ thwack.

_Her hand closes on the tail of his yellow tee shirt and she drags him back, away from the tiny brown shape. It’s not quite dead. One leg twitches, curls, and goes still._

_She fishes Mike out from behind the wheelbarrow with the other hand and shepherds them all out into the sunlight. And that’s where she gets the whole story._

_In short: they were playing. Jonathan got bored of babysitting and went off on his own. They decided that the shed was a secret tunnel, and Mike was supposed to hide and them jump out and ambush the bad guys. And that’s when he kicked a spider web on his way by, completely oblivious until he had gotten himself wedged into a corner not a centimeter from the startled arachnid. He was stuck; he couldn’t move without getting closer to the spider. Panicked, he called for Will._

_The whole story takes a few minutes to piece together, thanks to their joint storytelling skills._

_“I was hiding,” Mike eventually gets out. His chin dimples as he struggles valiantly to contain the sniffling. “I broke its web but I didn’t mean to but I think it was angry at me an’ -”_

* * *

Will was sniffling too, by that point. Joyce remembers that clearly. He had noticed the scrape on his knee a few minutes after the slaying of the beast.

She sent them inside by themselves - she remembers that too. She sent Mike and Will inside with instructions to wash off Will’s knee while she stayed to lightly scold her oldest. The usual _he’s just five, you can’t just leave him all alone without telling me, you’re almost nine now and you need to take more responsibility_ spiel. And when she sent Jonathan off with a ruffle of his hair to signal forgiveness, she had discovered the boys perched on the edge of the tub with the contents of the first aid kit spread out over the bathroom floor. You would have expected a severed limb at least with all the gauze and scissors and q-tips scattered everywhere. Mike had selected the largest band aid in the box, and as Joyce watched, he stuck it over Will’s battle wound. Very seriously. He was funny that way - his somewhat chubby little face would turn so _serious,_ intent on his task.

Some morbid curiosity had pulled her back to the shed. As Jonathan retreated to his room and the boys got back to their game, spider quickly forgotten, she wiped up the remains of both weaver and web. The violin pattern on the thing’s back was unmistakable. Brown recluse, for sure. A bite would have been a problem - a real problem.

She doesn’t know why this is the memory that comes to mind as she’s lying in bed, eyes fixed on the popcorn ceiling. She tries to puzzle it out - after all, it’s not like she’ll be getting much sleep now anyway. She lies there, and she turns over, and her mind goes in circles. But she doesn’t know why those three images won’t disconnect in her brain. Little Will, all three feet and six-point-seven-five inches of him squared up against the spider - tiny, really, but venomous. Little Mike, very seriously smoothing a too-large bandaid over the scrape on Will’s knee. And the both of them, just now. Will’s hands braced on Mike’s chest as he leaned up. No hesitation at all in his movements as he fit their lips together.

Her nose is pricking, and a hand comes up to cover it again.

Joyce pulls a fistful of blankets up to her chin. Her feet are still chilled from the kitchen floor, and the queen size bed is big and empty and a little cold. But -

But Will’s isn’t. Just on the other side of that hallway, Will is almost definitely warm.

* * *

 If sugar hangovers are possible, Mike has one.

And if they’re impossible, he still has one.

He’s been drifting in that one-quarter-awake, mostly-asleep zone for an indeterminable amount of time. It’s morning - there’s light - but he’s not getting up until it becomes necessary. Or even opening his eyes for that matter. Or moving.

Well, he might be convinced to move. It’s too hot inside the sleeping bag, and his right hand is entirely numb - possibly his entire arm. It’s gonna be a bitch to regain feeling. He must have slept on it weird, but fixing that requires moving, and he doesn’t want to. Not when he’s so comfy otherwise. Seriously, the floor has never been so comfortable. Or warm. Or...

He’s not on the floor, is he?

From this angle, it takes his brain a couple seconds to process what he’s seeing and put it together into the familiar layout of Will’s room. It’s just, usually he’s seeing it from a couple feet lower down and slightly farther to the left. And usually his vision is impeded by the bed instead of a head of brown hair. A head which just so happens to be resting on his shoulder. Which explains why his arm is, so far as his nerves can tell, nonexistent.

His head turns and the clock comes just into view. 9:37am.

On the one hand, Mike has absolutely no problem letting his head fall back into the pillow and going to sleep until noon. On the other hand, he can’t un-notice Will now that he’s somewhat more conscious.

Will is turned half on his stomach, half on his side, draped over Mike with his face pressed into Mike’s shoulder. And he’s asleep. And for a solid three minutes, Mike lies completely still, at a loss for what to do.

He feels like he should be mildly embarrassed by this. This is bizarre. He’s in bed with his best friend, arms wrapped around him. Holding him - holding a _boy_. And he knows it’s stupid - he knows perfectly well that he’s been over this at least once a day for the past two-ish weeks, and he knows that he decided he doesn’t care - he doesn’t give a single fuck! - but. There it goes again. He can tell himself that he doesn’t care all he wants, but it doesn’t shut his brain up. And he has to spend the next five minutes trying to convince himself not to be a dumbass.

It’s too damn early for this.

Despite it being nearly 10:00.

Whatever. He’ll get over it. He drops his nose into Will’s hair almost petulantly, determined not to let himself ruin this by overthinking. His bedmate stirs minutely, but his breaths remain even.

The bed smells like them. Or maybe that’s just Will’s hair. Probably both, to be fair. In any case, Mike closes his eyes again and breathes in. Maybe he will go back to sleep. It wouldn’t be too hard.

It’s the same scent that usually hangs around the room after a sleepover, unnoticable until he leaves and then returns. Now it’s stronger, headier. It’s the somewhat flat smell of dormant bodies and bedsheets and morning air, and this time, it’s also both of their own scents melded together. It’s not especially sweet; definitely not a man-made smell you’d find in a bottle or a bar of soap. But it’s not bad, either.

He’s not sure at first, because his shoulder is so dead, but - yes, Will is moving. Nuzzling into his shoulder. Mike is gonna kill him. He kind of wants to shove him off the bed and grumble, _Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re adorable. Now wake up before all this sap kills one or both of us._ He wants to poke Will until he opens his eyes, or pull the blankets off him. Normal guy-friends-giving-each-other-a-hard-time stuff. Anything to diffuse this... this... god, Mike wants to kiss him.

Will’s eyes open and Mike pokes him gently on the nose.

“Care to join us in the land of the living?” he teases. Like he didn’t just wake up a few minutes ago himself.

“No,” Will says, and turns his face into Mike’s chest again.

“Your breath is awful.” Mike shakes him. “Get up, I want breakfast.”

Will scoots up, pushes a hard kiss onto Mike’s mouth in retaliation, and blows a warm puff of morning breath in his face. And Mike feels a little less weird about climbing out of the bed they just shared, laughing and shoving at each other.

* * *

The weirdness returns in the kitchen. Because Mike can’t remember the last time Joyce made pancakes - or any kind of breakfast, for that matter. Jonathan is the designated morning cook, and when he’s asleep or gone, they forage for themselves. Cereal or toast, usually - pretty hard to mess up. Except for that one time. But look, that wasn’t Mike’s fault. The toaster had gremlins and possibly electrical problems.

Anyway.

The point remains that Mrs. Byers is standing in front of the stove in her pajamas and a thin sweater, a box of pancake mix at her elbow. The radio sits on the other end of the counter and she’s almost, though not quite, swaying along to the chorus of _Danger Zone_. Jonathan must be up and out already, because he’s nowhere to be seen. If he was home he’d definitely be hanging around the kitchen. No force on earth can keep Jonathan from pancakes. Nancy learned that the hard way.

“Late shift today?” Will says by way of greeting, and she jumps a little, as if pulled from a deep thought. Then she smiles at them, nods, and turns back to the stove.

“Noon to nine.”

_“Gonna take you right into the danger zone,”_ Kenny Loggins interjects from the radio. Joyce turns it down another notch and rubs at her cheek. Her thumb leaves a smudge of flour just beside her nose, the white a stark contrast to the circles under her eyes.

Will makes a sympathetic face. “Hopefully After Hours Guy isn’t there tonight.”

Joyce pulls a face in return and echoes, “After Hours Guy,” in a groan.

Mike cocks his head from the table and Joyce starts in on a brief but heated explanation about the customer who almost always comes in mere seconds before they’re supposed to close.

She seems tired. She’s usually up earlier than this – isn’t she? Mike doesn’t know her well enough to be sure, but it is kind of weird to see her in pajamas at 10am on a work day. And is she acting weird? A little stiff? Or maybe stilted? She keeps staring deep into the colander of blueberries she’s washing and then saying, “What?” when one of them says anything. Again, maybe she’s just tired.

Mike frowns into his orange juice. They probably kept her up last night. Damnit. Now he feels bad.

Will starts the coffee pot and watches in disgust as Mike heaps milk and sugar into his cup.

“Gross,” is Will’s comment, and Mike dumps a spoonful into Will’s mug. Half of the sugar scatters on the floor by their feet as Will blocks it with a squawk, but the other half makes it into the coffee, and Mike cackles as Will sets it down and mutters, “Ruined.”

He picks it up and drinks it a few seconds later, though, so Mike knows he’s not really mad.

The pancakes are neither burned nor doughy. Mike wouldn’t have particularly minded if they had been either, but as it is, he puts away approximately five. Once, when he looks up, he finds Joyce’s eyes already on him from across the table. She gives him a small, tired smile, and goes back to her own mug of coffee.

* * *

 “It just - shouldn’t -” Will sighs impatiently, searching for words. He’s loading up his arms with soda cans as if they’re ammunition, glaring at the fridge. “It’s not like we can’t trust them. We can trust them.”

“I know we can. We can,” Mike agrees. The counter presses into his hip where he leans against it, hands scrubbing over his face. “But we can’t just -”

“Why not?”

Mike gives an incredulous huff. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t _get it._ Two weeks ago Will was telling him how terrified he was that someone might find out about him. Now he wants to just go ahead and tell the whole party about the both of them? What the hell.

“What do you want?” Mike’s voice is low, but his hands jab at his sides to make up for it. His parents are upstairs and everyone else is in the basement, door closed, but the kitchen isn’t that far away. “We’re supposed to say, _oh, yeah, by the way, we’re dating now. You guys are cool with that, right?_ ”

“Yeah?” Will shrugs and almost drops one of the Dr. Peppers. “No. I don’t know. I don’t - I don’t _not_ want them to know.”

Mike kind of doesn’t want them to know, though. Will gets that. He has to get that. How could he not? Why are they fighting about this? _Are_ they fighting about this?

Mike selects a tin of mixed nuts and a bag of pretzels with perhaps more force than necessary. Max started it. She was the one that made the comment. _Are you guys done holding hands under the table over there or is someone gonna roll?_ She didn’t mean anything by it. She teases like that all the time. And it’s not just them. She teases Dustin and Lucas, and El, and even Jonathan and Steve and Nancy if any of them are around. It’s just, this time the roulette wheel fell on Mike and Will. And it hit just a little too close to home.

They weren’t even holding hands. That’s the thing. And it makes Mike even more antsy. They weren’t even holding hands. Will reached out and nudged Mike’s knee with his hand, but Mike didn’t take it. He didn’t want anyone seeing. He felt bad immediately, but what was he supposed to do? And then Max just had to make that comment and -

Will mutters to his shoes. “I hate that we have to sneak around.”

Guilt from earlier twists in Mike’s gut, like someone’s stirring his insides around with a fork. Damnit. He tosses the snacks onto the counter and the pretzels miss and hit the floor.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and goes to hug Will with a quick glance at the basement door. Still closed. The sodas are cold between them, slippery enough that one almost slides out under Will’s sleeve. He draws his elbow in to catch it. He won’t meet Mike’s gaze.

“Yeah,” Mike says again. “I know. I do too. But...” he casts around. “It might not be all bad.”

Will’s face folds into something half-skeptical, half-curious. He has to tilt his chin up slightly to finally meet Mike’s eyes, as close as they are.

“Do you remember when we were little and we’d play spies?”

“Sure. Yeah.”

“We’d write notes in invisible ink and have secret codes and make up missions and stuff.”

“So?”

“ _So,_ maybe...” Mike shrugs, all at once unsure. This sounded better in his head. “This could be like that. Like grown-up spies.”

Will arches a brow delicately - an expression that Mike is almost certain he picked up from El. “Grown-up? We’re teenagers.”

“Hey, we’re adults. We’re grown.”

“Is that why you have barbeque chips and three comic books in your backpack but no planner?”

“First of all -” Mike pokes Will just under the ribs and Will nearly drops the cans of soda. “Nosy. Second of all, yes, yes it is. And anyway, my spy idea is brilliant.” Will is still fighting to maintain an unimpressed facade, so Mike pulls out an invisible radio and makes a static sound effect. “This is Agent Wheeler calling base for stats on Mission: Make Agent Byers smile.”

Will resists, cracks a smile, and then snorts. His head tosses back with the half-laugh, half-grin, and Mike stares for a second. Just a second. Because even a few years after changing it, Will still looks really good with his hair parted to the side and brushed back like that. And now that the tension has broken and dissipated, Mike can grin right back.

“Shut _up,_ you’re such a goof.”

Mike throws his fists above his head. “Mission success!”

“Would you pick up the pretzels and get down here already? They’ve probably made their own DM out of spare parts and are halfway through the ruins by now.”

“No Franken-Master can replace me.”

“You mean Franken-Master’s Monster?”

“Frankenstein’s Dungeon Monster.”

“Ooh, nice.”

Downstairs, the campaign resumes, fueled by snacks. But something has shifted. Mike dodged the real issue - he knows that. And he is summarily ignoring that fact. That’s a later-problem. Right now he has to figure out how to corral the Party in the right direction, and all of them keep getting hung up on stupidly unimportant details. It’s like trying to herd cats, honestly. They spend ten real-life minutes trying to interrogate a rock he described as looking vaguely like an old man’s face. Ten minutes! It’s just a rock, guys, stay on target!

It doesn’t take too long for the whole Party to dissolve into laughter after that, and Mike is feeling normal again.

But certain things become much harder to ignore when Will bumps Mike under the table again. And this time, Mike slowly flips his hand. Their fingers interlace as Mike looks up the stats for an approaching monster.

Just when he thinks his heart rate has returned to normal, Will leans over in a moment of general shouting and laughter and anarchy, and whispers, “We should sleep together again tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! As always, I absolutely love to hear your thoughts. I have absolutely no shame and will beg for reactions and feedback like a true writer lol.  
> Not to give any spoilers or anything but I'm excited about what I'm working on writing now... *coughdatecough*  
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Christmas Lights

“It doesn’t feel like anything from the Upside Down.”

El’s first knuckle bumps along the sharp edges of her incisors, tracing the shape of her mouth. Her head is bent, brow tense. She speaks around her hand, anticipating Mike’s reply before he gets it out.

“I’m sure. Those things - that place - it has an energy. Very...” Her hand leaves her lips to flutter beside her head, as if she’s trying to grab the word out of the air. “Unique.”

“Then maybe it’s nothing.”

Her head slants down towards one shoulder in a kind of half-nod. “If it was one time. Yeah. Nothing.”

“But it keeps happening?”

“I’ve been keeping track of it.”

“And?”

“Don’t know yet.”

Mike rubs a hand over his own mouth with a sigh and a shift of his weight. They’re standing in the shadowed half-corridor between the kitchen and the living room, listening to the bumps and shouts of the others getting ready to leave. Cozy yellow light spills from the open basement door, but no one has started tromping up the stairs yet. Dustin yells something Mike can’t make out from here, but Max’s answering holler of, “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!” is loud and clear. El’s expression of worry loosens for a moment as she rolls her eyes.

“Look, Ellie,” Mike says, taking advantage of her momentary smile. The old nickname brings her gaze to his. “You worry too much. And work too much. It’s just the power grid. You know how Hawkins is, especially with that new power company that took over. _And_ the weather last month.”

El rolls her eyes again, this time with a nod. Last month’s storms, and the outages and delays they caused, have been the talk of the town.

“It’s probably just the power grid,” Mike says again. “Which means it’s the company’s problem to fix, not yours. Don’t worry about it.”

She’s not the least bit convinced, and he can tell. But she just shrugs. There’s a theory brewing behind the warm brown of her eyes - something she’s not saying, at least not yet - but Mike’s not worried. This isn’t the first time an electrical disturbance or two has made Party members jumpy. It’s been years, but certain flickers of light - certain smells, certain distant sounds - can still send any one of them into an irritable tailspin, on some days. It’s happened before. And his gut says that this is no different. After all, El said herself that she didn’t feel anything from the Upside Down. So what else would it be? Gremlins?

His train of thought takes an abrupt turn as he notices her face scrunch up in mischief.

“What?”

She makes an aloof face and crosses her arms.

“What?”

“So?”

“So what?”

El leans forward and Mike’s heart sinks as he realizes what’s coming.

“Soooo,” she says again.

Mike mutters, “Aw, fuck off,” and tries to elbow her gently away, but it’s too late; she’s already pounced. She attaches herself to him like a monkey, poking at his sides and grinning evilly, her laughter washing over his protests.

“No - hey, c’mon -” He’s starting to laugh too, despite his best efforts. “Stop it, come on -”

“I told you so,” she sings in his ear, evading his attempts to dislodge her.

“Shut _up,_ seriously.”

Recognizing the real warning in his voice, she drops her volume. She’s agreed not to tell the others, despite a long and mildly infuriating argument. But that doesn’t stop her teasing.

Voice pitched low, she repeats, “I told you so, I told you so,” until she devolves into laughter again at his failed attempts to escape her clutches. She’s acting like a kid sister, teasing and tussling, all seriousness from mere minutes ago seemingly evaporated. Like the kid she never really got to be, he supposes. That doesn’t keep his annoyance meter from creeping into the red, and he sulks away when he finally succeeds in shoving her off.

She follows, undaunted. “Say I was right.”

“No.”

“But I was.”

She swings around the doorframe and blocks his path down the steps. “Say it or no passage.”

He glares and she imitates him, pursing her lips. Then she laughs, and her tone evens out a little; she’s not playing anymore. “Mike. You know I’m just happy for you.”

And maybe it’s just his imagination, but the tiniest flicker of sadness seems to darken her smile too. But then it’s gone. And she presses a kiss to his cheek and disappears down the stairs, her curls flicking against his nose as she turns. She nearly collides with Max on the bottom step, and Mike swears he sees a hint of pink rise to El’s cheeks as they do the side-to-side dance and eventually laugh and slip past one another.

* * *

 The Party has departed; Mike’s mother is upstairs, probably almost in bed; his father is dozing off in front of the TV, feet propped up on the La-Z-Boy. The basement door is firmly shut. They stole the radio from the kitchen counter, and it now sits on the table, volume turned down low enough not to reach the levels above. The Christmas lights are plugged in - a holdover from when they were thirteen and the soft pink-ish glow made it easier for them all to sleep. By now the lights are more tradition than anything else.

And though Will can - usually - sleep okay in the dark, he still feels just a little better with the string of lights plugged in. Mike didn’t know that, until recently. It’s one of the things Will has told him since the day at Castle Byers; more accurately, one of the things they’ve told each other. They’ve talked so much, in the past two weeks. Because why not? What’s an old confession or a furtive wish or a guilty pleasure when they’ve already exposed their darkest secrets to each other?

But they’re not talking just now. Those lights waver at the edge of Mike’s vision. He and Will are half-lying on the Wheeler’s old yellow-ish couch, just underneath where they strung up the lights almost four years ago and never quite got around to taking them down.

Will is sleeping over. As per his suggestion, and a surprise to no one. Being best friends for over a decade, it would be unusual if one _wasn’t_ at the other’s house over the weekend. Still, Mike’s heart picked up in his chest when he poked his head around the corner to say, _“Hey, Mom, Will’s gonna stay over.”_ Of course she just said, _“Okay,”_ over her book, told Mike to clean up their snacks this time, and that was that. But he felt, stupidly, like he narrowly avoided detection somehow. As if everyone can see, just by his face, that something is different. Something has changed. That the sleepovers of late aren’t quite the same as they used to be. As if the rest of the Party, hollering goodbye on their way out, would take one look at Mike standing next to his best friend and know immediately what they were up to.

Well. El did. But she just smirked on her way to Hop’s car and said nothing. The rest trickled out one at a time, completely unaware that Will’s fidgeting was due to impatience and not sugar rush.

Fingers flutter over Mike’s field of vision.

“You in there?”

Mike blinks. Then he smiles. “Hey.”

Will grins back, almost laughing. “Hey. Watcha thinkin’ about?”

He hesitates. They already had an almost-fight today about what the others know and don’t know. “The lights,” he answers, truthfully.

Will glances up. The multicolored glow touches the planes of one half of his face; the other half is shadowed. They’re the only light source in the basement; beyond the couch is just warm, familiar darkness. “We could turn them off,” Will is saying, but Mike shakes his head.

“They’re fine. I’m too comfy to move, anyway.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because I’m losing feeling in my arm. Scooch.”

Groaning, Mike turns. They’ve been half-lying across the couch, Will squashed against the back while Mike’s ass just about hangs over the edge of the cushions. When they were twelve they could lie on this couch side-by-side with no issue. Now... not so much. Not unless they _really_ squeeze together.

Mike gets up on his knees, balancing on the old cushion while Will settles into the middle of the couch and stretches dramatically. The opportunity is too good to pass up, and Mike’s hands shoot to Will’s ribs. Will yelps. His whole body scrunches in on itself, like a startled pill-bug - and then the surprised gleam in his eyes turns challenging. And it’s on.

Mike’s evasive roll takes him directly off the edge and onto the floor, and then he’s up and Will is right on his heels. They dodge around the indistinct shapes of furniture by memory. Whisper-shouting because Ted is just a floor above. Circling and feinting around the table before Will lunges directly over it and Mike stumbles back in surprise. His heel rams into something he can’t see and he hits the carpet.

“Oh, shit,” Will giggles in a stage-whisper, “You okay?”

“No, I’m dead.” He sprawls out on the floor and closes his eyes. Will’s knees land at his side, hands jiggling his shoulders until Mike barks, “Psych!”

Will reacts fast - but not quite fast enough. Mike’s hands close over his wrists and a brief struggle lands him with short breath and a knee on Will’s chest.

“Get off,” Will finally huffs, after failing to dislodge Mike’s weight. “I can’t breathe.”

“You’re fine.” But he moves his knee from Will’s sternum.

They ended up just at the edge of the pool of dim light, and it makes the flush of Will’s face even more pronounced as he takes a few deep, recovering breaths. Mike can see his pulse jumping in his neck. His own heart matches Will’s pace, and he dives down - and stops. Familiar. So familiar. Too familiar. How many times? How many times have they been in a similar position, just after wrestling for the remote or shotgun or just because? How many times has Mike looked at his best friend afterwards and _wanted_ \- somewhere, deep in the unconscious back of his brain, suppressed and half-ashamed - wanted -

Will closes the last of the space between them, sitting up on his elbows to reach.

They’re lazy, at first, too out of breath from their brief but intense chase to do much more than kiss. Mike stretches out and, after a second of hesitation, settles his weight over Will. But apparently he can breathe just fine now, because Will doesn’t make a single sound of protest. He just tilts his head the other way and curls his fingers into Mike’s hair. He seems to like doing that.

The shift comes all at once. Will’s body, pressed tight between Mike and the floor, melts and then goes taut as a wire. A shiver races up Mike’s spine and into the base of his skull before his mind catches up. He isn’t startled when his boyfriend rears up and tugs at the roots of Mike’s hair. His little gasp isn’t of surprise, or even pain - it doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t resist or question when Will pulls them to their feet, barely breaking the kiss for a second. Because some small, secret part of himself expected this. Maybe even hoped for it.

In the back of his mind, he hears the radio advertisements end, the station’s signature jingle, and the introduction to the next song. _Tonight Tonight Tonight_ by Genesis, apparently. The song starts up as Will maneuvers them to their feet.

Standing makes him painfully aware of how tight his jeans have become. His cheeks go hot. But he doesn’t think he could break away and adjust himself if he tried. He feels like a ragdoll, like Will could do whatever he wanted with him at this point. With Will’s tongue tracing over his lips and one cold hand pushing up under Mike’s shirt. Stand up? Sure. Stumble to the couch? Okay. Lie down? No problem.

 _“Try to shake it loose, cut it free,”_ the radio sings, over the vaguely electronic instrumentals. _“Just let it go, just get it away from me, oh; 'Cause tonight, tonight, tonight, oh; I'm gonna make it right; Tonight, tonight, tonight, oh...”_

If Mike was thinking straight he would almost definitely be mortified. He should _not_ be this turned on by Will snapping his teeth on Mike’s lower lip and crawling over him with that slow, deliberate grace. And when he realizes he’s trapped, caged in by Will’s limbs, he should be recoiling. Wriggling away. Annoyed or uncomfortable - or even scared. Not tilting his head back to expose a neck prickling with gooseflesh. Not going hot and cold under Will’s teeth - not letting out a small, strangled noise when those teeth sink down hard into the sensitive juncture between neck and shoulder. And his hips really, _really_ shouldn’t twitch up in a sort of desperate, instinctual stutter when Will suddenly caves and drops his whole solid, warm weight over Mike’s body.

But no matter how hot Mike’s whole head has become with blood-blush, from the tips of his ears to the back of his neck, his hands still find Will’s shoulders. His fingers still curl and grip tight, and his face still drops into the mop of brown hair. Will’s mouth moves along his neck, leaving a wet trail, and then he bites down again and his cheeks hollow out and Mike’s body bows against Will’s at the burst of hard suction. It almost hurts, and then it does hurt, and Mike squirms even though he’s not really trying to get away. His pulse throbs through his whole body; his dick, still trapped in his jeans, is pressed firmly to Will’s hip. Which Will can almost definitely feel. The muscles of Mike’s stomach contract instinctually in embarrassment, trying to pull him away, but there’s nowhere to go but the couch cushion below.

Will breaks away, leaving a patch of saliva to cool in the chilled basement air. His cheeks are scarlet-tipped, lips dark and swollen. His eyes sweep over Mike’s, and there’s a second - just a second - of trembling pause. Then Will has Mike’s head in his hands and a shallow breath sucks against Mike’s cheek as Will draws their mouths together.

Pops of static ripple along their forms intermittently, like soap bubbles bursting one after another. The sting is tiny and impotent, and when they move, a tiny lightning storm crackles between their torsos. Like when you kick your legs around inside a fleece sleeping bag.

Will shifted, sometime in the last few moments, and now he’s settled squarely over Mike’s frame. And he swears, as the radio chimes away from the table, that he almost feels Will’s own hips press harder against him when Mike rubs his tongue over Will’s. Will is frenzied, insistent. Mike can barely keep up, but he doesn’t mind. His mind went kind of warm and fuzzy a while ago. He’s drifting in sensation and perfectly content to lie back and do so. Will’s weight, solid and warm and reassuring, pressing him down into the cushions. His tongue in Mike’s mouth, hot, slick. Will’s scent, rising in waves from the heat of his skin.

An current of arousal sinks deep into Mike’s belly when he realizes that there’s been something prodding insistently against his own stomach.

It’s all gone in an instant, leaving a vacuum of cold.

Confusion and a sting of rejection push through the fog in Mike’s mind. He sits up as Will tugs his shirt straight, clearly avoiding eye contact.

“What?”

“Sorry. Just. Didn’t want to smoosh you.” The answer comes out clipped, and Will is still looking down.

And Mike doesn’t know what he did wrong. What he _keeps_ doing wrong, evidently. Because this keeps happening. Right in the middle of things, Will pulls away. And there’s no pattern Mike can find - no obvious trigger. He sits up further, and Will moves to let him out.

“No,” Mike says, “What’s wrong?”

_What did I do?_

Will shrugs. He nervous-laughs. He tries to sound casual. None of it is fooling Mike for a second. “Nothing. It really - it’s just, I know you’re not as -” He fumbles. Starts picking at a thread in the couch. “I mean, I know you - you wouldn’t want -”

 _He thinks I’m scared._ The thought is automatic and barbed. Defensive. Because Will could have just come out and said it. Or asked. He didn’t have to - to - and - and Mike isn’t scared, anyway. He’s not afraid, not for a second. He’s not afraid and he’s not ashamed of this. Of how much he wants this - this - this wrong, (deliciously) dirty - he’s not scared. He’s _not._

“Maybe I would,” he snaps.

Will grumbles right back. “You like girls too, it’s not the same.”

Something snaps in Mike’s chest. Small and clean, like the stem of a flower. He opens his mouth, but suddenly all the air in his lungs is flat.

_Oh._

_It’s not the same. You like girls too. You’re not_ really _like me. You’re not_ really _the same; you’re not the real thing. You’re just half._

Will’s eyes are finally on Mike’s, and they’re wide. His tongue trips over itself to blurt out, “I didn’t mean -!”

Mike stands.

“Wait, no - that’s - _Mike._ That’s not what I meant.”

Will catches Mike halfway around the table and Mike speaks without looking at him. He wants to snap again, but there’s no venom in his voice - not much of anything, in fact. It comes out soft and toneless. “Then what did you mean?”

* * *

 Will’s throat is closing. How did this happen? Sixty seconds ago they were cuddled up on the couch, making out with the radio playing softly in the background. Now -

He’s such a moron. God, he’s an asshole. Why did it come out of his mouth like that? If he had thought for another half a second about what he was saying -

The truth. That’s all there is for it. He has to say it.

“I just don’t want you to be disgusted by me.”

Mike’s stance shifts. He doesn’t face Will, doesn’t look him in the eye or offer any embrace of forgiveness, but his posture is looser. The lines of his shoulders aren’t as hard under his shirt.

Will swallows. This train of thought is too similar to what kept him silent all those years. Wasn’t it his greatest fear? Isn’t it still, really? That Mike would be disgusted. That old phantom nightmare swims before Will’s eyes, backing away, lip curled, spitting, _What is wrong with you?_

“I just don’t want to -” It sounds stupid, coming out of his mouth. Like it doesn’t really capture what’s tangled up in his overactive neurons. He makes a sharp gesture at his temples and pushes the rest out. “To overwhelm you or - or - or gross you out or -”

He shuts down his nearly-wobbling voice with a tight jaw. He will not cry. He will not break down right now. He won’t, it’s not fair. Mike is the one that’s upset - no, _hurt._ Will has to be the strong one right now. He has to make this right. He can’t be blubbering.

Mike turns, finally. “What?” He shakes his head. “You don’t... Will. You’re not gonna _overwhelm_ me.” His eyes roll skyward to accentuate the sentence. He doesn’t do finger quotes, but it’s clearly a close call. He’s annoyed now. Frustrated. He pulls a hand through his hair. “I think I can handle it.”

Will nods. Unconvinced. Handle it? Sure, maybe. Yeah. But there’s a difference between putting up with something - or simply being _okay_ with something - and actually wanting it. And Will doesn’t want to just be put up with.

He wants to snap at Mike. He wants to sulk and cross his arms and he wants to pull his boyfriend back to him and pepper kisses all over his face until the hurt he caused is gone. He wants to say, _no, you don’t understand, there’s something dark inside me. You don’t know. You don’t know what I want to do to you. You have no idea how much I need to hear you beg._

The words, even just inside his own head, make him hot all over with shame and embarrassment and a spike of arousal that cramps the muscles of his lower belly. His hand shakes when it reaches out and lands on Mike’s shoulder. Will speaks softly.

“I’m sorry.”

Mike doesn’t react. But he doesn’t jerk away, either.

Will draws in a breath. “I’m sorry, Mike. I swear I didn’t mean how that sounded.”

“Sounded real fucked up.”

Annoyance twitches in his belly - _I’m trying to apologize, damnit -_ and Will pushes it down. “Yeah. It - um, yeah, it was. I said it and then thought about what it sounded like and I just... I fucked up.”

Mike sighs. And then his arm extends and he pulls Will roughly against him. “Stop it. It’s okay.”

Will burrows into the hug tightly enough that Mike can’t change his mind even if he wants to. “Now you.”

“Hm?”

“Now you’re supposed to say what you did wrong.”

“What, did you read some step-by-step apology manuel?”

“Just do it, dipshit, we’re making up.”

Mike shakes his head. His nose brushes back and forth along the crown of Will’s head. But after a moment of thought - or perhaps just stubbornness - he says, “I stormed off?” He thinks. “And... made... assumptions? Fuck, man, I don’t know. I don’t know how this works. That sounded mature, did that work?”

“Gold star for effort.”

“Fuck you.”

“Well, if you insist.”

They both pull back an inch, looking at each other with mirrored expressions of shock. Then they burst into laughter. Deep, loud belly-laughs that can probably be heard throughout the house.

“ _Will,”_ Mike gets out. His whole face is tomato-red.

Will’s hands are plastered over his mouth, so his voice is muffled when he gasps out, “I didn’t think I was gonna say - I didn’t know -”

They lean on each other, weak, trying to smother their laughter. It goes on for a whole radio song. Every time they think they’re done they make eye contact and go off again. Eventually, as they wind down with hiccups, Will speaks up.

“I really am sorry.”

Mike slides down one last burble of laughter and rubs a watering eye. “Yeah, me too.”

Weight lifts from Will’s chest like a balloon with its string cut. He tilts his head up and Mike doesn’t hesitate to tilt his own down, meeting in the middle.

It’s another few hours before they decide to go to bed. And for the first time since they were twelve, they go to sleep on the couch, side-by-side, cocooned in one of the Wheeler’s giant army-green sleeping bags. It’s a tight fit, but not too uncomfortable. Mike’s back presses into the back of the couch; Will’s back presses into Mike’s front. Mike drapes his arm over Will’s waist to lace their fingers together.

The inside of the sleeping bag smells like cedar, the Wheeler’s basement, and Mike. And with the gentle glow of the Christmas lights above them, and Mike’s breath rising and falling against Will’s back, he realizes that he feels safer than he has in a long time. Yesterday this was too new to really process it. He was too overwhelmed by the situation itself to think about much else. But now he can’t fathom another nightmare lurking in the dark corners of the basement. Not with their legs rubbing together like crickets in the warm depths of the sleeping bag and Mike’s arm a gentle anchor over his waist.

They forgot to turn the radio off. They turned it down so low, a little while ago, that they barely noticed. But now it’s the only sound in the basement, and Will can’t ignore it.

Will blinks, and the radio goes quiet.

He wriggles further back against his boyfriend, tucks his nose into the sleeping bag, and shuts his eyes.

* * *

 There’s a hickey on Mike’s neck.

Clear as day, dark as the grape jelly Mike is spreading on his toast.

Will stuffs a piece of bacon into his mouth and keeps his head down. Hoping fervently that no one will notice. For now, luck is on his side. He’s the only one sitting to the left of Mike. Ted and Karen are both to the right. Holley is bouncing around telling Ted all about the differences between turtles and tortoises.

Mike must have noticed. He brushed his teeth in front of the mirror. He can’t have missed it. It’s not exactly subtle. High on the neck, too. The collar of his sweater does absolutely nothing. But all throughout breakfast, they chatter and clean their plates and Mike gives no indication of knowing that there’s a souvenir of last night about three inches under his earlobe.

Will still isn’t sure if Mike has noticed or not by the time he gathers his stuff and announces regretfully that if he doesn't get home his mom will start getting antsy.

He’s halfway out the garage door, where his bike is parked, when Mike lets a blur of mumbled words out of his mouth. Will stops.

“What?”

“Do you want to go on a date?” Mike repeats, softly. He closes the door behind him and then adds, “With me?”

As if he meant anyone else.

Will’s mouth curls up in a smile that shows his teeth. “Yeah.”

Mike’s hand lifts and nearly paws at the mark on his neck before it drops again. So he does know.

“Uh, great.” He gives a little laugh.

“When?”

Ted left for work already, and Karen is upstairs with Holly, but they still talk in near-whispers. The corners of Mike’s mouth pull down briefly. “Friday?”

“That’s in a like a week.”

“Oh yeah. Um. Monday.”

“Track,” Will says, at the same time that Mike says, “Drama.”

“Tuesday,” Will proposes.

Mike agrees, “Tuesday.”

Will swings a leg over his bike and kicks forward as Mike wanders out of the shade, into the morning sunlight. It turns his dark eyes to molten coffee-brown, and he squints. “I have a lot of quarters.”

“Arcade?”

“‘S what I was thinking.”

“Definitely.”

Will circles the yard, waves goodbye, and bumps down into the street. He wonders if the bruise will have faded by Tuesday. He wonders how they’re going to have a real date if no one else can know it’s a date. He wonders how bad the fallout will be when Karen notices what’s on her son’s neck. He wonders why he can’t stop grinning in spite of all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love hearing your thoughts, no matter what they might be! :)  
> Confession: like twice as much plot was supposed to happen in this chapter but they made out instead. Wasn't my fault. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. The Palace

It’s El that catches wind of it at first. Which, in itself, isn’t an issue. Except that she happens to utter the syllables _“ar-cade”_ within Max’s hearing range. And then it’s all over.

“Ooh, tonight?” Max swings herself into her traditional seat at the lunch table. The blue of her eyes sparkles with interest. “I’m down.”

Lucas plops down next to her and flicks some of her hair off his food. “Down for what?”

“The Palace, I think.” Max turns to Dustin. “What about you? You busy after school?”

“Club,” Dustin grunts through his sandwich. He doesn’t bother specifying which one. In fact, he himself may not even know. Dustin hops between science clubs like he’s playing after-school-hot-potato.

Lucas shrugs. “So, evening then?”

“Evening what?”

“The Palace,” Max reiterates.

Dustin grins and pumps his fist, mouth still full of ham-on-rye.

El has already settled at her spot, seemingly in no hurry to comment on the mess she’s created. She just crunches on a chip and regards the scene like a queen looking over her kingdom, mouth quirked up just a degree. She always has thrived on just a touch of chaos.

Will’s gaze cuts to Mike over his juice box. Mike has frozen. Like a rabbit on the road at night, hoping that if it does its best impression of a rock, maybe the headlights won’t see it anymore.

And meanwhile, Will is still trying to piece together what just happened. As far as he can tell, the order of events is this: Mike and El arrived at the lunch table hip-to-hip, talking in low voices. El said something that included the words _arcade_ and _tonight_. Mike started to say something. And then Max, who had been approaching from behind, honed in on their conversation like a bloodhound picking up a scent.

And now they’re rather in a bind. Because they can’t exactly say, _“Oh, no, actually, none of you can come. It’s just us. Why? No reason except fuck you, that’s why.”_ But they can’t really say, _“Well, actually, it was going to be a date,”_ either. Or -? No. For just a second, Will wondered if maybe this was the time. It was the briefest of seconds, though. He knows this isn’t the right time, and definitely not the right place. And Mike is adamant about their secrecy, even to the Party. So, what’s left to say?

“Uh,” Mike says. He looks at Will, and Will looks at him, and they send each other _what do we do_ vibes. They both look at El. She and the rest of the Party stare back at them.

Will twitches one shoulder up and digs into his lunch box, breaking eye contact. A clear signal of, _your call._

“Yeah.” Mike regains his footing with a shrug and a smile. “This evening. Sounds good.”

“Six?” Lucas proposes, and there’s a ripple of general nodding and approval.

So, shit.

Mike catches his eye as they start eating, and they exchange expressions that mean _we’ll sort it out later._ When Will looks away, he happens to catch El’s eye across the table.

El knows. About them. Mike told him at Castle Byers. And really, Will’s not surprised. And he has no right to be mad. The way Mike tells it, El was instrumental in convincing him to take the chance and meet Will at Castle Byers at 2:00pm that Saturday. She was the one that talked him into taking the leap. The fact that Mike had to tell her about the letter - about _Will_ \- is... forgivable. Irksome, but forgivable. And he’s had a couple weeks to process it, which helps.

But it’s been weird with El ever since. Over the years, and after an initial sort of cold-war rivalry, El and Will grew nearly sibling-close. Shared experience and all that. And with the same brown hair and a similar nose, many people assume they’re related anyway. El is one of the few people Will feels comfortable opening up to. On especially bad nights, or when the weather turns frosty and the memories just won't _stop,_ El understands.

They’ve barely spoken for the past couple weeks. The thought sours the food in Will’s stomach. It’s not that he’s been avoiding her - well, maybe he has, a little. But what is he supposed to say? _“Hey, so, I’m dating your ex! Thanks for helping set us up and all. Funny how that works, huh? I’ll pay you back by... uh... by... somehow. Anyway, how’s that book?”_

She cocks her head a little and stares right through his eyes in that unnerving way of hers. He swallows his bite and says, “May the Fourth be with you.”

She blinks, slowly, like a cat. Then she grins. “No, May the Fourth be with _you._ ”

“Aw, you beat me to it!” Dustin slaps the table. “I was gonna say that.”

Actually, Will’s mother beat everyone to it. She squeezed both their shoulders on the way by - Jonathan about to leave for his commute to campus, Will on his way to school - and delivered the line with obvious pride. It made Will laugh and roll his eyes with a drawn out, _“Mom.”_ And it made him think. It could be his imagination - maybe he’s just paranoid, now that he has something so precious to protect - but it seems like she’s been acting weird lately. Not a _lot_ weird - just a little weird. A tad more smiley, more playful. He can’t tell if she’s honestly been in a good mood for a while, or if it’s fake-happy.

It may just all be in his head.

* * *

Will paces.

Mike is supposed to pick him up at 5:45pm. For their date. It is still a date, they decided, even though the Party will be there.

His watch says 5:46.

Footsteps and movement behind him draw his attention away from the window. Joyce flickers in and out of view as she passes the doorway to her bedroom. She got home from work a little early today, and has been bustling about with a purpose ever since. But now, walking closer, Will takes note of the details he hadn’t seen before. The deep-bright crimson red of her blouse. The sculpted curl of her hair. The heels - shoes Will knows for a fact she hates wearing, because she complains at every moderately fancy event they attend. She pats at her hair in the mirror; she hasn’t noticed him yet.

A knock on the door makes them both turn. Will’s mother gives the slightest pause when she sees him. Like a stutter. Then she’s clicking past in her heels, giving him a smile, and opening the door. And it’s not Mike; it’s Hop.

With Mike a few steps behind him.

Mike’s ugly, slant-nosed, taupe-ish Toyota is parked a few feet away from the police chief’s solid Chevrolet Blazer. Will can see it over their shoulders, parked in the Byers’ long driveway in the dappled shade. They make an odd pair.

Joyce’s nose scrunches in a smile as she greets “Jim” - somewhere in the craziness of those two autumns, years ago, they got on a first-name basis and have never looked back - and then ruffles Mike’s hair as he ducks past with a wave.

“Looks like we’re both headed out, then,” Will says. His mother does not miss the teasing edge in his tone, and she gives him an exasperated glance - devoid of venom - as she locates her purse.

“Where are you boys headed?”

“The Palace,” the say at once.

“With the Party,” Mike adds.

And for the first time, Will is glad that they unknowingly invited themselves along. Because Hop just nods and says, “Yeah, just dropped off the kiddo. You guys be careful heading home.”

“Yes, sir.”

They move out the door in a herd and Joyce closes the door behind them. “I’ll be back late.”

Will looks at her curiously, but they’re already heading to their separate cars. And it’s not like this is the first time she’s gone on a date with the police chief. It’s just the first time Will has actually witnessed it. And the closest she’s come to admitting it to his face.

He doesn’t think about it for long. He has his own date to focus on, after all.

Mike takes his time adjusting the radio until Hop pulls around and takes off down the long driveway. Once the brown of his car disappears around the bend, they lean over the center console and pick up where they had to leave off yesterday. They haven’t had much opportunity to steal moments alone today. It’s been busy. And Will has been waiting for this. He’s been eyeing Mike all day.

He’s almost embarrassed. Those old patterns of thought come chugging back through his brain, mechanical, automatic. Mike has looked damn good all day. _But Will only noticed for sketching inspiration._ He’s been wearing high-necked sweaters, the last few days, to cover the fading hickey, but today he went with a button-up shirt under a thin jacket. The pale bruise peeks out just above the collar, but you wouldn’t notice it unless you already knew it was there. _But he shouldn’t be paying attention to things like that._ And Mike’s eyes, dark and expressive, found Will’s over and over during the course of the day. _But Will isn’t planning on pouncing the moment they’re alone, nope, because he needs to tone it down, he can’t be so intense, so off-putting, it’s gonna weird him out_ -

And Will is, for once, very proud of himself for the restraint he shows in the car. He kisses Mike with his torso twisted, the center console digging into his ribs. And then he lets go. He leans back, despite wanting to click off their buckles and pull Mike to the back seat and spend half an hour there.

They’re late to The Palace anyway.

Halfway across the parking lot, Mike says, “Wait.” They halt and he reaches out, face serious, and tugs at Will’s vest until it settles straight on his frame. His hand moves up to fix Will’s collar. “There.”

Will’s weight shifts minutely. He glances towards the glass double doors of the Palace, but there’s no one there. They’re alone in the sleepy, dusty-gold light of early evening.

A smile is pushing through, unsure but genuine. They haven’t done anything like that before - what his mother calls _“fussing.”_ Not with each other, and not in public. When Joyce does it he almost always sighs or laughs and ducks away. But now he can feel heat filling his neck and cheeks. Which is dumb. They’ve shared more secrets than they can count and made out on top of each other; he should not be blushing because Mike is standing close to him. That’s stupid. But despite all logic, he’s fighting down a goofy smile like he’s thirteen again. Like they’re sitting on the Wheeler’s couch again, Halloween candy spread out in front of them, his heart beating hard at the words he’s never quite forgotten since.

After a moment he extends a hand of his own. Mike’s hair has been in mild disarray since Joyce ruffled it. Will fixes that now, taking a few seconds to arrange the almost-curls while Mike makes an artificially weirded-out face until they both laugh.

“C’mon,” Will says, and pulls them to the doors.

Inside, they find the Party exactly where the expected: Dig Dug, with Max at the helm. The traditional starting place.

“What, you get lost on the way?” Lucas shuffles aside to let them into the circle. Four quarters gleam from the bottom corner of the screen. If history is an accurate judge, Dustin will be next in line, followed by Lucas, then El.

Mike digs around in his pockets, then ducks away to feed a couple crumpled bills into the change machine. Over the chaotic plink-plonking of the games, and the burble of voices, and the frantic click of buttons as Max evades a fygar, Will can just make out the bouncy chords of a Michael Jackson song.

 _“_ _I'll pick you up in my car; and we'll paint the town,”_ pipes from the speakers above. Max makes a sharp turn and tunnels furiously towards the enemy that’s been stalking her. The Party cheers encouragement. “ _Just kiss me baby; and tell me twice; that you're the one for me; the way you make me feel.”_

Will braces the crease of a palm on the side of the machine, leaning over El’s shoulder to see. It’s familiar and solid under his grip, the paint just on this side of gummy from years of hands doing exactly what Will is doing now. Mike has disappeared around the corner of an aisle, but he swears he can hear the grating _whirr_ of the change machine rejecting a bill, followed by Mike’s impatient mumbling. Will grins. Maybe he should be more nervous - this being their first date, after all - but it’s hard to be on edge here. This is home turf, as much a part of their lives as the Wheeler’s basement or the AV room. Plus, ever since he was about thirteen, this place has had a sort of energy to him. An energy that he’s just now starting to recognize. It’s as if there’s a blacklight radiating out from every machine, every neon sign. Invisible to the human eye, but _there._ It’s invigorating. A buzz of energy sits low in the pit of Will’s stomach, at the base of his spine. He touches his fingertips together a few times, in the pocket of his vest, and a crackle of sparks discharges some of the tension.

Will could map out this place in his sleep. Dig Dug here. To their right, Galaga, and Asteroids against the wall. Dragon’s Lair near a back corner. Pac-Man and Mrs. Pac-Man stand a few cabinets apart, like Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler at dinner. The blue walls and matching ceiling panels, lit by slashes of blue and orange fluorescents, give an illusion of something otherworldly. An escape from reality.

The Palace is, perhaps, just on the edge of a decline. With more and more households boasting home gaming systems, there’s been talk of arcades like this being eclipsed and pushed out of business. Dustin showed them a magazine article all about it. And maybe they’re right, because their old childhood haunt has been looking just a tad worse for the wear. The brightly tiled floor is started to get a bit faded in the most heavily-trafficked paths. A couple of the skeeball machines near the back have been out of order for a month. The neon lights in the windows fizz behind increasingly dusty blinds, and the buttons and toggles on some of the games are alternately sticky or loose. High school seniors sometimes lean against the orange support beams out front, smoking, too cool to actually go in but at a loss for where else to go.

It’s still a popular destination - Hawkins doesn’t really have much in the way of entertainment - and The Palace is regularly booming during weekend and summer evenings. However, this being a Tuesday in early May, it’s relatively quiet. Maybe half a dozen groups are scattered here and there, mostly keeping to themselves. The upshot: the Party will pretty much have their pick of the games, with very little time spent waiting in lines.

Max goes down just as Mike finally returns with quarters, victorious from his battle with the change machine. She grumbles as she taps in her name. It’s not a high score, by her standards, but it’s enough to earn an impressed nod by a guy passing by with his friends.

“Right,” Dustin chirps, and plucks his quarter from the line. “My turn.”

Mike holds out a handful of quarters. “How’d she do?”

“Solidly mediocre,” Max says, at the same time that Will answers, “Brilliant.”

Will accepts the quarters. They slip from Mike’s palm to his, and for a moment, Mike leaves his cupped hand in the cage of Will’s fingers. Quarters resting in a jumble in the center of their hands. Mike’s eyes reflect the flashy neon of the arcade. And all at once, Will _is_ nervous. Because now this does feel kind of like a date.

Especially when Mike tilts just a little closer and mutters, “Stakes?”

 _Oh._ So it’s a game, is it? Will feels an impish grin take over his face. Okay. Game on.

“Loser...” He thinks. Their hands are still cupped together around the quarters. Several things flash through his mind - none of which he can say. He goes with something safer, voice low enough to be drowned out by the electronic jangling of the games. “Loser picks next date. And picks movies and music for a week.”

“A _week_?”

“Better get moving.”

Their hands part. Will grips the pile of quarters in a hot palm. They’re warm. Mike grins.

“Prepared to lose?”

“In your dreams, Wheeler.”

They slap down their quarters for Dig Dug - you can’t just go the The Palace and not play Dig Dug first, it’s _tradition_ \- but after that, they’re all over the place. It’s not technically a race, but they half-run between cabinets anyway, standing side-by-side as they take turns. The Party absorbs them now and again, like an amoeba. The girls have teamed up sometime in the past twenty minutes, and are now working together to beat Lucas’s high score on Asteroids. Ribbons of tickets pile up. Will and Mike are neck-and-neck, counting their spoils meticulously between each game. Mike pulls ahead with a particularly long run of Rampage, of all things. And Will - well, he can’t have Mike winning. He already has his movies of choice in mind. So he drags them over to the front, where Tetris stands near the front desk. Another group is just wandering away.

“Really?” Mike gripes.

Will plugs in a quarter while making direct eye contact. Mike gives an exaggerated groan.

Will does adequately. Which is fine. He didn’t need a stellar score, he just needs to catch up. And Mike has never been a huge fan of Tetris. Mostly because he’s always sucked at it.

Will watches him struggle for about a round and a half before taking pity on him. He’s starting to feel just a little bad for intentionally choosing the one game he knows Mike hates, and besides, Mike’s starting to pout. And that’s not a good time for anyone. So, Will steps forward.

The stark neon glow shines in the curl of Mike’s hair. Orange and purple and blue. His face is set in stubborn concentration. Brows pulled down over his eyes. Will lines himself up with his back, threads his arms under Mike’s, and presses them both closer to the machine. A quick look over his shoulder confirms that no one is really nearby; everyone is focused on their games. And even if they did look over, it’s not like they’re doing anything. He’s just standing close. Looking over his friend’s shoulder, watching him play. Nothing unusual here. Still, his heart kicks at his ribs, and he’s ready to quickly and casually step away should anyone come around a corner or look too closely.

Will pushes them a half-step forward, gently, until Mike’s belt clicks against the front edge of the cabinet. He tilts his head curiously, sparing Will a glance, but he can’t look away for long without losing progress.

Mike’s skin is hot under Will’s palms. He can tell Mike is already thoroughly annoyed with the game, because he hands over the controls immediately, so to speak. His hands go pliant under Will’s, letting his boyfriend guide him. Will is more pleased with this development than he maybe should be.

All things considered, it doesn’t work very well. Piloting another person’s hands is about the equivalent of dialing up the difficulty of the game by a factor of ten. They make it another level, and then promptly lose. But they’re both laughing hard enough to be out of breath by the end, and Will counts that as a win.

“Here,” Mike says, trying to suppress the last of his giggles. He counts the tickets and tears the laughably short strip in two. “I think technically we both won these.”

“I think technically we lost,” Will counters, but he accepts his share: a grand total of three tickets.

It’s as they’re walking away, following the raised voices of the rest of the Party, that Mike takes Will by surprise. They’re in a sort of half-aisle between rows of cabinets, out of sight from those on either side. And Mike, with a sharp swoop of his head, drops a kiss on Will’s left temple.

Will gives a giggle of surprise, ducks his head, and then straightens. He leans in.

And whispers, “Weirdo,” in Mike’s ear.

Mike’s indignant, sputtering laughter follows him to the Party, where El is giving Dragon’s Lair a run for its money.

* * *

Mike’s shoes crunch over loose nuggets of asphalt, scattered cigarette butts, and a small halo of broken glass. They’re halfway across the parking lot; the evening has turned from gold to blue to purple. They pass the Palace sign, which spins lazily, beaming orange light into the soft indigo of the descending night. Will’s trajectory cants towards it for a moment. As if he’s planning on stopping at the island of bricks that makes up the base. But they simply loop around it and head for the car.

It was Mike that made an excuse to the Party and pulled them away. Will may have won - by only _seven,_ mind you - but Mike has plans of his own.

The car is parked strategically at the very edge of the parking lot, at the end of a row. On one side, an overgrown and rather scraggly bush hides them from view of the road. On the other, there’s just the empty parking lot, swathed in a layer of darkness save for the regular slow pulse of orange. And - hallelujah - no one else has parked on this side of the lot since they arrived. Which was Mike’s hope when he first parked here.

Because it’s not a date if they don’t get at least a little time alone, is it?

They didn’t even spend their tickets. There’s nothing good under the counter that they could afford, and the rest is all junk. Junk that they’ve bought several times before, in fact. So rather than add to their collection of plastic finger toys, kazoos, slinkys, and tiny off-brand action figures, they just stuffed their tickets into their pockets and made their escape.

Now, when Mike slides into the back seat rather than the driver’s, Will gets the idea right away. He hops in, slams the door, and locks it.

Outside it’s cool, just on the edge of cold, spotty clouds pulling in over the purplish sky. But the bubble of air in the car has retained the day’s warmth. It’s a small, cramped space. The beige cloth of the seats bears the marks of two cigarette burns from owners past. The smell of smoke is still, just barely, discernible, but it’s mixed in with the scent of the tree-shaped air freshener Mike’s mother made him hang. It’s a woodsy, resin-y kind of smell. Which, you know, would stand to reason. At least it’s not the type his father hangs from his own rearview mirror, which is some sort of pine or eucalyptus or something, so strong and so sharp it almost makes Mike’s eyes water.

And anyway, with his boyfriend pressed up against him - by necessity, in this narrow space - all he can smell is Will. Ivory bar soap and - cologne? He dips his head, trying not to be creepy about smelling him. Yup. It’s the cologne Will uses only once in a blue moon. Something earthy and fresh, like juniper. Mike associates it with holidays, and big events. School dances; Jonathan’s graduation; birthday parties. And, apparently, dates.

He wants to laugh and shake his head and say, _nah, you didn’t have to do that. That’s for special occasions. I’m not special. I’m just me._ But Will is already busy arranging them in the small space, and it’s not important enough to ruin the moment over.

They discover that if they lie down, heads nearly smashed against one door and legs folded up like accordions, they have just enough room to... well, to still be vaguely uncomfortable. But it’s better than nothing. And, bonus: they’re out of sight.

Will arches up at the same time that he pulls Mike down.

Mike nuzzles into the kiss. He’s surprised to find that this has become muscle memory. He doesn’t need to think about how to move, how to angle his head to align with Will’s. He can just settle his knees at a better slant on either side of Will’s, legs slotted together, and let it carry him off.

But he can’t entirely lose focus. Not today. Today he has a mission. His plan is simple: give Will as much leeway as possible. Give him the reigns; let him take charge. Because clearly there’s something Mike has been doing - he doesn’t know _what,_ but clearly there’s _something_ he’s doing wrong - that sets Will on edge. Something that makes him retreat, makes him doubt and think twice. Not this time. Because if Mike lets Will take the lead, he can’t possibly end up doing whatever it is that’s been pushing him away. That’s the plan, anyway.

It’s not difficult. Will has been naturally assertive since the first time they kissed like this - surprisingly so. Mike grins against Will’s mouth. If only they knew. No one would ever suspect polite, reserved, introspective Will Byers of nipping and pushing and tugging until he gets what he wants.

And Mike never suspected himself of being so amenable to it. But what Will wants often coincides with what Mike wants, so who is he to complain?

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t go hot in the face and squirm just the slightest bit when Will’s hands slip under his jacket and then the hem of his shirt. Shyly at first, then with more confidence when Mike makes no protest. Fingers press into the flesh of Mike’s sides, and he feels as though he can make out each individual fingerprint where they send a trembling kind of warmth through his torso.

He realizes all at once that nearly his full weight is resting on Will’s frame, sandwiching him between Mike and the cloth seat. He sits up a little.

“Can you breathe okay?”

“Mike,” Will laughs, and pulls him back down with a palm cupped at the nape of his neck.

And, okay, maybe Mike gets a little off track with his plan. Or maybe his plan wasn’t working so he switched tactics. The world may never know. (Mike doesn’t know.) But when Will seems to sense his compliance, he runs an experimental tongue around the shape of Mike’s mouth - and Mike pulls back. Teasing. Playful. He’s in a mischievous mood, suddenly. He waits until Will moves in again, then allows just a chaste kiss with barely a hint of a tongue. He didn’t mean to do it; he’s not really sure _why_ he’s doing it. But every time Will has to chase Mike’s lips, or arch up to maintain contact, a little thrill lights up in Mike’s belly. Maybe because he knows exactly what’s coming.

Aaaand there it is. Mike can feel the exact moment that Will gets frustrated. His legs shift and all at once he’s scooting back, sitting up, and grasping Mike by the shoulders to reposition them. Then one hand jumps to Mike’s hair, holding him still for a hard kiss. A little noise gets trapped between their mouths. Hot, sweet tension is coiled low in his belly. Like something inside him is saying, _yes. This._

So, maybe Mike did stray from his plan a little. But end result? Mission success.

They fumble for a few seconds, and then Will manages to finagle them into position. This time, he doesn’t hesitate to straddle Mike’s lap, with Mike sitting at the center of the backseat. They both glance to the window, but the sun has fully set by now, light drained from the sky. It's dark outside; it’s dark inside. Anyone across the parking lot would only see the reflection of the arcade’s lights in the window.

Mike’s heart throbs in his throat. His pants are becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and Will isn’t helping that by rocking forward the way he is. Then Will’s hands are tugging at his jacket, and he sits forward to help get it off. It’s way too hot in this car, anyway. Will discards his own vest, and it goes to join the jacket somewhere in the void between seats. Their lips meet again and Will’s tongue probes into Mike’s mouth, and his hands are pushing up under his shirt again, coaxing. Tugging it up, up -

And then he’s gone. Sitting back, neck hunched under the low roof of the car. And Mike wants to groan in frustration.

_Goddamnit._

Will is, somehow, handsomely rumpled. With his vest gone and his shirt a tad askew, buttons just off-center, and his hair all over the place. And in the semi-darkness, Mike can just make out the slight frown on his face as he stares at his hands and mutters, “Sorry.”

Mike lets his head fall back against the headrest in exasperation. “Would you stop?”

Will’s eyes flicker up, wide with panic. “Sorry. God. I’m s- I did - I tried to stop. I stopped. I’m sorry, I won’t -”

“No,” Mike cuts him off. He has to talk over Will’s nervous babbling. “That’s not what I mean. Will.” Will trails off and meets Mike’s eyes. “I mean, would you stop pulling back like that?” Will’s brows twitch into a bemused frown and Mike lifts his hands. “I know you think you’re going to _overwhelm_ me or some shit, but -”

And that’s where he stutters. Because he planned to say, _but you won’t, okay?_ But that doesn’t feel right. It feels weak. Unconvincing. And he’s frustrated - in more ways than one. So he mouths silently for a second, and then blurts something unplanned.

“I want you, okay?”

There’s a moment where they just stare at each other. Mike’s fingers twitch with nerves. He feels like his body is touching a livewire - or perhaps that he _is_ one. He’s aware of every tiny feeling and sound.

“You do?”

Mike nods. The movement comes out crooked. It takes him a second to find his voice again. “Yeah.”

Mike swears he sees Will’s throat move in a swallow. It could just be the darkness playing tricks on him. His voice comes out quiet - though not soft. “You mean it?”

He nods again. Firmly, this time.

“It’s -” Will licks his lips. “You know - I mean, I know it’s not the same as...”

“As...?” Mike tilts his head, trying to get Will to meet his gaze again. His hazel eyes have fallen. “As... being with a girl?” he guesses. Will nods minutely and Mike snorts. “Yeah, well, no fucking shit.”

Will’s lips tilt up in the ghost of a smile. Then he heaves a deep sigh, like he’s trying to dislodge something from his chest. He rubs three fingers over his eyes. “I guess. I just. I don’t want to...”

“Weird me out,” Mike finishes for him. “You said that. And I said, not gonna happen. Look, would I be here if this wasn’t what I wanted?”

For the first time, Will looks almost convinced. He’s nodding along, expression open as  he listens. Head tilted, a corner of his lip between his teeth. When his teeth release his lip and he speaks, it’s in a hoarse near-whisper. “You don’t know what I want to do to you.”

Well, fuck. That’s mildly terrifying, and now Mike is hard again. So suddenly, in fact, that he has a second of lightheadedness. He can’t help the question the comes up his throat. “Like what?”

Will’s head shakes. “I c... I can’t...”

_Can’t say it._

“You could show me.”

Something flashes in Will’s expression. His head whips up - a small, swift motion that makes his hair bob. “Show...?”

Mike nods.

Will breathes deep, once, twice. Then his hands rise, like two pale knives in the darkness, and find Mike’s face, and he bears down to kiss him.

Headlights flash over them, blinding. They shoot down so fast Mike bashes his head on the door. Outside, the crunch of tires swings smoothly out of the parking lot and down the road. No hesitation; no cartoonish shouts of, _Hey! You two! Stop right there!_ Just someone pulling away. They’re already gone; in all likelihood they didn’t see a single thing. They probably didn’t even notice that there was anyone in the backseat of the car in the corner of the parking lot.

But Mike’s heart won’t stop hammering, and he goes limp against Will with a shaky laugh. Will collapses into the awkward hug with a laugh of his own. They’re both trembling.

They decide to head home after that. The moment was broken, and besides, Will is getting a tad antsy. He doesn’t say anything, of course. But Mike sees the way his eyes stay glued to the windows after that; how his limbs seem stiff, strung tight. So he offers to take him home.

The radio helps to dull the sharp blade of silence. Will turns it on in the intro of a song. It’s eardrum-shaking loud, thanks to Mike’s earlier enthusiasm, and the volume makes them both jump before Will dials it down.

 _“_ _I was caught in the crossfire of a silent scream; where one man's nightmare is another man's dream. Pull the covers up high and pray for the mornin' light; 'cause you're livin' alone in the heat of the night,”_ the radio sings.

He turns it down two more notches as Mike pulls out of the parking lot. “Mike?”

“Yeah?”

The old car picks up speed with all the efficiency of an old woman on roller skates, and eventually the lane markers start flashing by. Will takes his time before speaking again.

“Thanks. For. You know.”

Mike doesn’t know, exactly, but he can make some educated guesses. One hand stays on the steering wheel. The other reaches over and feels for Will’s fingers. He gives them a squeeze. “Yeah.”

Hawkins rolls past, lit by streetlights. The buzz of anxiety in Mike’s skull is just starting to fade. They weren’t caught; they weren’t seen. No one’s coming after them. It’s okay.

The radio sings on.

_“In the heat of the night they'll be comin' around. They'll be lookin' for answers, they'll be chasin' you down; in the heat of the night. Where you gonna hide when it all comes down? Don't look back, don't ever turn around.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is... much longer than I planned XD My apologies.  
> As always, I love hearing your thoughts, and a review would make my day. :) Thanks for reading!


	5. Last Snow

It’s too hot inside this nice jacket. Sweat pricks at the back of Will’s neck and the small of his back. The pads of his fingers pinch and slide over his collar, the cuffs of his sleeves, his tie. Shiny shoes scuff over the somewhat grimy gym floor. He drags a piece of confetti around with his toe.

In big cities, prom is held in real ballrooms - or so legend tells. The kind in hotels or event centers. Once, at summer camp, someone said that his sister’s senior prom was held in an aquarium, right in front of one of the largest tanks in America.

But this is Hawkins. Prom is being held in the same place it always is; the same place as all the other school dances. Good old Hawkins High School Gymnasium. Tyson the Tiger ( _Tough! Truthful! Talented!_ ) roars out over the heads of the newly arriving partygoers from the far brick wall, half covered by a paper cut-out. Will scans the slow trickle of arrivals, but doesn’t see Mike.

This year’s theme, as proudly announced last week by the student government, is The Great Gatsby. Jonathan said that his senior prom - the only dance Nancy could drag him to - was a bit underwhelming as far as atmosphere. But they didn’t do too shabby this year. Some incredibly dedicated and enthusiastic student government members made sure of that; Will has a feeling that a certain Ms. Emmy Stevens was heavily involved.

Yellow archways of balloons lead into the gym. There’s a green lightbulb in a lantern hung up above the makeshift stage. Shimmering white and gold streamers are everywhere. Someone went to great pains to cut out silhouettes of ladies in 1920s flapper attire dancing with gentlemen in suits and top hats and taped them up on the walls. The photo station is piled with props: black and yellow feather boas, fake moustaches taped onto chopsticks, monocles, fake cigars, plastic martini glasses, strings of pearls. Someone with a dark sense of humor has put up a sign that reads, “ **< \--** ~~ **Swimming Pool**~~ **_closed_** ** _due to maintenance._** ”

The music rather ruins the effect, though. When Will arrived in the carpool, they were playing some upbeat, swinging music as an intro, but they gave that up within five minutes and switched to familiar songs. The 1920s hits, apparently, don’t lend themselves well to modern dancing.

A tap on his shoulder. He turns and catches a flash of emerald green. Another tap, a giggle, and he has to turn all the way around again before El comes to a halt in front of him.

El opted for a 20s-esque vibe, as per the theme. Voracious reader that she is, she finished The Great Gatsby two days after it was assigned, and announced it to be _stuffy, but not bad._ Apparently she liked it enough to base her outfit on, though. She’s sleek and elegant in a sleeveless, knee-length dress and pearl-encrusted headband, her wild curls sculpted into a loose bun. Gold eyeshadow glimmers on her lids as she throws out her arms, awaiting judgement.

Will exclaims appreciatively and interprets her open arms as a hug, which she returns with a laugh. She pulls away with a swirl of musky-fruity perfume and pulls him to the rest of the Party.

He watches her as she greets Dustin and Lucas, and finally Max. Conflicting emotions push-pull in the cage of his ribs like two opposing ends of a magnet. She’s beautiful. Delicate and strong and brimming with life. And Will, in his navy hand-me-down suit last worn by Jonathan sometime in early high school, can’t help but feel a bit plain in comparison. Even in his prom night attire, he can’t possibly compare to _her._ Something like doubt and something like triumph clash in his mind. It’s a strange mix of, _Mike prefers me over_ that _?_ and _Mike prefers me over_ that.

And speaking of Mike, he’s later by the minute.

“And now my mom’s on _both_ our cases,” Lucas whines as Will and El insert themselves into the group. “Which - I mean - how is that fair? Blame _Erica,_ not me. It’s not my fault she got her hands on a magazine. It’s not like I go through my little sister’s backpack to make sure she’s not reading _16._ She probably just got it from a friend or something, but _nooo,_ somehow this is on me because I’m the big brother.”

“El,” Will chirps, turning away from Lucas to hide the beginnings of a chuckle. “Let’s get some exercise, yeah?”

She eyes him curiously, but takes his arm without comment. _Rock Me Amadeus_ starts up as they move towards the center of the gym, and El’s glossed lips quirk up, most likely at the memory of the Party headbanging to this song in the Sinclairs’ van a few months ago.

“ _16_?” she says as they enter the fringes of the crowd. Apparently she picked up on Will’s knowing grin.

Will shakes his head at her, innocent as can be. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

She just snorts, not bothering to inquire any further.

As a dance partner, El isn’t half bad. She’s naturally graceful, and bold enough to dance freely in the thickening crowd of awkwardly shuffling, heavily perfumed and cologned teenagers. They jokingly join hands, laughing as they dip back and forth the way Will’s mother showed him way back before their Snow Ball. It’s nice to joke around with her like this. It seems like they haven’t really hung out in weeks. And the song isn’t half bad. But his eyes keep wandering to the doors.

El follows his gaze. “He’s late?”

A nod.

“Thought he was coming in the carpool with you guys.”

Another nod. “His mom wanted pictures,” Will says, but he hears the uncertainty leaching into his own voice. Mike radioed in last minute, just as Lucas was about to come pick them up. He said to go on without him; his mom was being annoying about pictures and he didn’t want to delay them. He’d just come in his own car. But that was - what? Twenty five minutes ago? Enough time for Lucas to collect the rest of the Party in the van one by one, arrive in the school parking lot, and file through the golden balloon archways. and wait for Mike. And wait.

And wait.

And if Will stares at the doorways any longer he’s going to look creepy or insane, so he looks back to El. She gives a grimace of sympathy and he brushes it away with a half-forced smile.

“Haven’t seen much of you lately,” he says, partly to change the subject and partly because it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Her reply is flat. “Because you’ve been avoiding me.”

He cringes. They nearly collide with an awkwardly dancing couple and El spins them both away to the right.

“Sorry. I - yeah.” There’s no point lying to El. Friends don’t lie.

El shrugs. “It’s okay.”

It’s not, really, and Will knows it, but she’s already on to something else. He can tell by the sly tilt of her head. Her voice lowers and he has to step in closer to hear over the beat of the music.

“Will. Have you felt anything from the Upside Down lately?”

It’s out of nowhere, and it tears Will’s eyes away from the doors again. But his spike of alarm tapers off when he sees her expression. It’s calm. Curious, maybe. Her gold-shadowed eyes stare right into his even as they keep bobbing and swaying to their goofy dance. They’re the same height; she doesn’t have to look up at all to meet his expression of confusion.

“No,” he says carefully. “Why?” And then, with a touch of urgency - “Have you?”

“No.” She shakes her head. A loose curl sways at her cheek. “I didn’t think it was from the Upside Down. It didn’t feel like it. But I wanted to double check.”

“Didn’t think _what_ was from -?”

“Small energy disturbances.” She seems to be watching him closely. “Could be the power grid. Could be something natural - weather. Could be nothing.  But you pick up on that stuff sometimes. Wanted to ask.”

Will is nodding along. His heart rate drops. And then rises again as a very familiar silhouette emerges at the far end of the gym.

“Yeah,” he says as the song ends. “Yeah, uh, keep me posted.”

She lets him go with a glance and a smirk, and Will makes a mental note to check back on that later. But right at the moment he has other priorities.

The next song is starting up. It’s a slow song, this time, and the crowd fluctuates as some flee the dance floor and some make a beeline for it. _“Watching every motion; in my foolish lover's game,”_ Berlin croons through the speakers as girls pull their reluctant dates onto the floor.

Will weaves through the crowd. Mike has spotted the Party and is making his way towards them, his head swinging to and fro as if scanning for Will. His legs are longer, and Will has to change trajectories to catch up with him, closing in from the side. And it’s stupid. It’s really stupid how happy it makes him when Mike’s head turns and he visibly lights up upon recognizing Will’s approaching figure.

He’s got something wrapped in a bandana, and he moves his hand slightly behind him as Will gets close enough to say, “Took you long enough.” His eyes linger on the paisley-printed bundle, but Mike just shifts it further out of view with a grin. “I guess your mom wanted about a thousand pictures.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, and shakes his head. “Just about.” His laugh is nervous, and maybe a little forced. “Hey, uh, c’mere for a second?”

Will watches him with some suspicion as they cut across the gym. He doesn’t blame Mrs. Wheeler for keeping him behind, really. It’s not often that you can talk Mike into a suit, and he really does look good in them.

In Will’s mind, nothing will ever beat how he looked when Will first saw him in the forest, at 2:07pm in front of Castle Byers, all sun-lit and breathless and impossible. But he has to admit, Mike does clean up pretty good, even though he’s clearly uncomfortable in the formal getup. He’s sleek and put-together in a gray pinstripe suit, which is only slightly too short for his gangly limbs. His tie is a sleek dark blue, his shoes shiny and obviously newly purchased. Most likely Karen’s work. His hair is almost unrecognizably neat, falling in a characteristic swoop over his forehead and curling at his temples and the nape of his neck. One strand of his bangs just barely brushes his lashes when he glances up. The pads of Will’s fingers rub together at his side, itching to smooth the strand back into place.

They swing around the corner of the half-hallway leading to the locker rooms. Water fountains protrude from the walls next to each locker room door; a girl in a ruffly red dress straightens just as they turn the corner, dabbing a drop from her chin with a long sleeve. She leaves with barely a glance at them, maybe hurrying off to dance. The song is just launching into the second verse. Then they’re alone.

It’s slightly darker here. No one bothered to turn on the lights for the locker room hallway, and there’s a solid brick wall between them and the rest of the gym. At the opposite end of the hall, the athletic office is dark and shuttered, with a sign in the window proclaiming, _“Mr. Attias is_ ~~ _in_~~ **_out_** _!”_

Mike produces the bandana and unwraps it under Will’s curious stare. He unfolds it haltingly. Like he’s second-guessing himself with every other fold. Two small-ish cornflowers emerge - only very slightly rumpled.

“You’re supposed to pin them -” Mike starts to explain, half-gesturing at Will’s lapel. It comes out a little strange, like he cut off in the middle of a thought. His cheeks are stained pink. He makes the same gesture at his own lapel, with only slightly more confidence. “My mom said it didn’t matter if I didn’t have a boutonniere, since I don’t have a date, but -” he does something approximating jazz hands. “Surprise!”

Will can’t help it. He laughs. “Surprise!” he echoes. “Okay. Do we have anything to pin...?”

“I actually thought of that, believe it or not.” Mike thumbs at the fabric and the bandana reveals two small safety pins, secured to a fold.

The process is more finicky than one might expect. It takes both their combined effort to puzzle out how to skewer the flowers through their stems, just below the heavy heads, and finagle the pins through the stiff fabric of the lapel. Will manages to get Mike’s in place, only a bit crooked, and they go for a high five - which turns out to be a mistake, since it jiggles the safety pin in Mike’s fingers and forces him to start over again. Still, Will can’t stop smiling. Surprise, indeed. _Surprise! He does have a date. I do have a date. See? Matching boutonnieres._ Maybe - now, that’s an idea. Maybe they could dance. It would have to be a faster song. Two friends jamming out with air guitar raises far fewer eyebrows than two friends slow-dancing. That thought dampens Will’s mood just a degree. Then he rallies. Who cares? Who cares if they can’t slow-dance together? Slow dancing is boring, anyway. They’re at prom together. As dates. And the individual flowers pinned to their lapels give proof to that, even if they’re the only ones who know.

Footsteps approaching; at least two pairs. Voices. A couple taking a water break, probably. Mike moves faster to secure the topheavy blossom, tugging at Will’s lapel, but the pin springs out and he gives a jerk and a hiss. A tiny bead of red crops up at his fingertip and he sucks it away, securing the cornflower to Will’s suit and -

“The hell is happening here?”

Of course. Of _course,_ of all the people who could have gotten a bit thirsty at this particular moment, it had to be Troy. It couldn’t have been the girl in red again, or one of the Party members, or even a teacher chaperone. Nope. Troy. Troy, and - yep, there come his buddies just behind him. Fan-friggin-tastic. What are the odds?

Or maybe -

Will’s heart begins a slow descent through his feet and into the floorboards.

Maybe it wasn’t chance. Maybe they were followed. The fight flashes through Will’s mind. He knew that wouldn’t be the end of it; he knew perfectly well that Troy wouldn’t stay down. That he wouldn’t let that injury to his pride go without retribution. But, damnit, it wasn’t supposed to be now. It can’t be now. This is their - this was supposed to be -

No. No, damnit, he won’t let them ruin this.

“The hell are those?” Troy squints. Then he starts to grin. It’s not a kind smile. “Are those _flowers_?”

 _“Take my breath away,”_ the speakers sing, over and over as the song nears its end. The soft instrumentals are so out of place, now, with Troy and James slinking forward to corner then, that it feels almost bizarre.

Actually, no. No. This is prom; Troy and James - _they’re_ the ones out of place, not the music. _They’re_ the ones going out of their way to fuck this up.

Will’s feet take an angry stride before he realizes it, and surprise lifts Troy’s brows as Will growls, “Oh, won’t you just fuck off? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Troy recovers fast. “Moi? I was just going to get a drink.” He points with a flat palm at the water fountain. “You’re the ones feeling each other up in a dark corner.”

Mike’s retort is dry, clipped. “Might want to get your eyes checked.”

There’s a small tug at the back of Will’s jacket. Mike is trying to pull him back, to edge sideways and escape back into the crowded gym. Will won’t budge.

Troy’s eyes dart down, and Will realizes his hand is half-raised. He’s gratified to see the new caution in the bully’s stance. Proud, even. They’ve done nothing but sneer, yet, and Will can’t help but think that’s because of him.

 _Yeah, that’s right,_ Will thinks, _you remember last time._

It’s a shame, really. Troy might be cute - handsome even - if he wasn’t such an asshole. With his turned-up nose and brown waves, gelled back for the special occasion. For one absurd moment, Will almost considers saying it, seeing the look on his face. _You know, you’d be cute - if it weren’t for the personality._ It might almost be worth it. But then James pipes up with a snigger.

“We probably interrupted a blow job,” he says to Troy, and the tug on Will’s jacket stutters.

 _In the hallway?_ is Will’s first thought. _No, dumbasses, that’s what locked doors are for. Like the AV room. Or a car. Or a fucking bathroom stall. Not the hallway._

Then the full meaning of the words penetrate his adrenaline and his whole face goes hot.

“Look how red they are.” Troy smacks James on the shoulder and then jerks a hand at them. “I told you. Didn’t I tell you? Fuckin’ fairies.”

Normally, Will would sigh internally and try to slink away. He’d press his lips together and try to forget it. This is nothing new. At least, not to him. But not this time. Because this time, he’s not the only one on the receiving end.

And this time it’s dangerous. If Troy starts running his mouth - if a rumor spreads - if the wrong people are waiting at the end of the grapevine -

So Will swallows his pride, turns with a glare, and walks away. He wants to fight - he _wants_ to get ahold of both of them and send a couple thousands volts through them - but he knows better.

He hears Mike spitting something smart-mouthed at them as they slip past the pair and out into the gym, but Will is only half paying attention. There’s a sour coating at the back of his throat. It’s what he’s always done before, when Troy or James or some cocky football player cornered him. Just ignore what they say and slip away; try to forget it. He thought he was used to it. He’s been through this song-and-dance since he was twelve, after all.

He’s pushing his way through the crowd, muttering _sorry_ at the grunts of protest. It’s too hot in here. There’s no air to breathe. His collar is pressed up to his throat; the crowd is elbow-to-elbow, suffocating.

He never meant to drag Mike into this.

A swath of party streamers comb over his face, papery and dry, and he cringes away at the unexpected touch. He doesn’t know where Mike is; he lost him somewhere in the crush of bodies. Voices blend with the music. The gently spinning lights, green and gold, are making him seasick. He needs somewhere quiet.

He needs to leave.

* * *

 The good news: either they lost Troy and James in the crowd, or they didn’t bother following.

The bad news: Mike has also lost _Will_ in the crowd.

It was Mike’s fault, really. Maybe flowers were too much. Maybe he should have known. But it’s not like it was a whole bouquet or anything. And, as flowers go, cornflowers are fairly sensible blossoms. Not too bright or frilly. The flower on his own lapel nods along as he maneuvers between elbows and shoulders. He pushes up on tip-toes to see over the clockwork swirl of heads, but he can’t spot Will. There, is that -? No, that’s not him.

Maybe it _was_ dumb. But it seemed like a great idea when he first thought of it.

 _“Hmm,”_ his mother had hummed. She was tugging at his suit, straightening it for what must have been the tenth picture. _“We didn’t get you a boutonniere.”_ She shrugged. _“Oh, well. You’re just going with your friends, anyway. Next year you’ll have to go with a date. We’ll make sure you have one then.”_

And thus, Mike’s plan formed almost instantaneously. He’d just tell the Party to go ahead, nip out back and harvest a bloom or two from his mother’s garden. The only snag: none of his mother’s flowers are blooming yet, in the front or back yard. And she chemical-bombed and decapitated all the dandelions just a few days ago. And he didn’t have time to stop by a shop for a real boutonniere - not that he’d know where to buy one, anyway. _And,_ he didn’t exactly expect crabby old Mrs. York to be peeking out her window at the exact moment that he hopped the fence and selected two blue blossoms from her flower bed.

The hunched old lady lectured him for five full minutes before he could get a word in edgewise. She did take pity on him, finally, when he explained that it was for his prom date, but by then he was already late.

Will is nowhere. Mike’s chest begins to tighten. He can’t help it; it’s an instinctual reaction. You’d think after almost five years, the memory would have faded. And Mike knows Will doesn’t appreciate being watched like a hawk every time he wanders off alone. That doesn’t keep the anxiety from trickling into his bloodstream. His hands go cold and sweat-damp, despite the muggy heat that presses down over their heads. It’s getting warmer in here than Mike’s formal tie and jacket really allow for.

Led by a sudden hunch, Mike heads for the back of the gym. Past the refreshments table. Past the teacher-chaperone who’s been sweeping his flashlight over any dancing couple getting just a little too friendly. Past a hanging display of party streamers, which flutter and sway in the muggy air.

Half-hidden in the shadows of a far corner is the gym’s back door. It leads outside.

Mike eases it open and slips out.

It’s snowing.

The “Just Kidding Snow,” is what Mike’s mom calls it. As in, _yay,_ _it’s spring now - just kidding!_ The last snow before spring really sets in, usually right around the end of April - just in time for the frost to kill off all the newly-sprouting growth. It was chilly in Mrs. York’s garden - cold and spitting rain when Mike arrived to school. Now the scale has tilted just enough for the drops to turn to flakes. It’s the soft, tranquil kind of snowfall. No wind, no ice. Just big, wet clumps of flakes floating in silence.

Mike’s shiny-new shoes skid on the slick asphalt. It’s not icy yet, but these soles were designed for indoor surfaces, not wet pavement. Especially not when the wearer is in a hurry, striding with a purpose around the corner of a building. Mike nearly falls at least once and a half before he rounds the bend.

He recognizes the silhouette instantly, even through the fast-thickening veil of snowflakes. Will is pacing behind the bleachers, head down, hands in pockets. He straightens and turns when he hears Mike’s approaching footsteps.

“Hey.” Mike bites his lip in time to keep himself from adding, _you okay?_ to the greeting. Will probably heard it anyway.

“Hey.” A shrug. The tip of Will’s nose is just beginning to redden with cold. “Sorry. Needed some air.”

Mike shrugs back, and his eyes dart down. The flower is still pinned to Will’s suit. He didn’t take it off. Despite Troy. The sight hits him right in the chest, for some reason, and he throws an arm around Will’s shoulders with just the slightest ache in his throat. Will leans into him, warm and heavy in the sharp-cold air. They resume pacing.

“I would’ve hit them,” Will says abruptly, just as Mike is inhaling to say something. He scuffs one heel along the pebbly pavement and scowls. “Wanted to.”

“He’s not worth it,” is  Mike’s automatic response. The same thing he’s been saying for years. But this time is different, and they both know it. “Anyway, didn’t you get enough detention last time?”

Will’s hands leave his pockets to gesture in a goofy _I-dunno_ motion. “You know, I kind of miss it. I don’t think a week was enough. Was hoping to land at least another two.”

“And you didn’t invite me? Rude.”

“Who said you weren’t helping?”

Mike looks down at him, eyebrows arched. “Oh, now you’re dragging me into this.”

“I thought you wanted in.”

“I wanted to be _invited._ That doesn’t mean I actually wanted to go.”

“Oh, so, you just wanted to be included.”

“Right.”

Will grins. “Oh, well, in that case. I apologize.”

“You better.”

They’ve stopped just at the edge of the school’s sad excuse for an outdoor basketball court, where athletically-inclined souls leap around after a ball during the lunch hour. Right now, though, the rough square of concrete is silent as the surrounding landscape. The only sound comes from within the school building. The music is muffled and bassey, all treble contained within the gym’s walls, but they can still make out the tune of the song. It’s a slow song, again, and Mike almost chokes on his own spit as he recognizes the lyrics. Will’s head tilts towards him in question and Mike gestures to the school, laughing.

 _“Taking this crazy chance to be all alone,”_ the song hums, soft and muffled, from within the school. _“We both know that we should not be together; 'Cause if they found out, it could mess up, both our happy homes.”_

“Oh, my god,” Will says blankly. Then he starts laughing, too. “That’s not... that’s _Secret Lovers._ ”

Mike echoes, “Oh my god. Is that what it’s really called?”

“The universe is mocking us.” Will rubs at his face, still laughing, and then makes a _not me_ gesture. “I swear I’m not doing this.”

“I didn’t assume you were responsible for the audio system, no,” Mike ribs, and Will does an odd kind of half-grin.

They walk for a moment more, still shaking their heads at the music. The snow is barely beginning to stick. It turns the patchy grass silvery in little clumps. Will sniffs; cold air always makes his nose stuff up. One large snowflake is caught in his bangs, lighter than air, clinging to two strands.

“Hey,” Mike blurts, and Will’s neck twists to look up at him. “We should - I mean, we could dance?”

His cheeks burn, and not from cold. He waits for a response without meeting his boyfriend’s eyes, unsure what his reaction will be. Seconds crawl by and he starts preparing his _totally kidding!_ spiel.

“I don’t know if we can,” Will replies quietly. One hand drifts up to touch the petals of the flower at his lapel.

“I mean out here.”

“Here?” Will looks at the basketball court. Then he smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, why not. Sure.”

It takes a lot of missteps and awkward laughter to get arranged. Mike has never been good at dancing to start with, and he has no idea how to approach _this_. With Will’s guidance, they settle on something comfortable. Each has one hand on the other’s shoulder and the other at their waist. Mike isn’t sure this is how people are technically supposed to dance, but, hey, whatever works right?

And it does work. It works fine, especially when Mike gives up trying to lead. Will is steadier on the wet ground, anyway.

The snow is heavier now. It ripples and whorls around them, like patterns of steam from a mug. It’s getting cold fast; cold enough for Mike’s nostrils to stick together when he inhales. They must be right on the edge of the cold front. Mike imagines that - thinks about the massive, silvery sheet of snow and cloud and cold air, rolling over Indiana, completely silent. The only sound is the slow scuff of their footsteps, smoother now on the concrete court, and the steady beat of the music. Like a heartbeat muffled under ribs. The snow is streaked warm gold every few yards with the glow of the streetlights; between them, it’s blue and silver. The basketball court is situated just under one such light, and the snow around them flutters like a curtain in the orange-ish glow.

Will’s hand shifts on Mike’s waist. Mike swallows the question in his throat - _are you cold?_ \- and instead says, “Sorry I was late.”

The fidgeting hand leaves Mike’s waist to hover beside his temple, where Will takes a strand of hair between two fingers and tucks it away. “‘Sokay.” The hand settles again, this time just over Mike’s hip. “This is better, anyway.”

“Than inside?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, the decorations were just a tad creepy. Honestly.”

“With the silhouettes and -?”

“Did you see the pool sign?”

Will laughs. “That wasn’t creepy, that was funny.”

Mike is about to argue back, but he never gets the chance. Will stops moving abruptly, making Mike stumble against him, and takes Mike’s head in his hands. His face and lips are chilled, his nose icy where it’s tucked beside Mike’s, but his mouth is hot.

They flee the snow with linked hands and red-flushed cheeks. Their fancy suits are wet with the heavy flakes, on their shoulders and backs. It melts in their hair, successfully undoing all the careful work of styling. Back in the green-and-gold lights of the gym, they weave through streamers and confetti to find the Party. Max and Dustin seize them immediately and everyone is dragged out to the dance floor in a group to jam out to _Funkytown_.

It’s only as the night is ending that Mike notices it. Everyone out of breath, laughing, ties undone and hanging around their necks, the girls carrying their shoes in their hands. Mike is walking along next to Will, their elbows touching as they move, hands in their pockets. And he feels eyes on him. When he looks, he only catches the brief impression of heads turning away. Whispers, maybe - or that could be his imagination. But then it happens again, just a few minutes later, and this time Mike swears he sees a few pairs of eyes lingering on their rubbing elbows.

He tries to shrug it off.

It becomes a lot harder to ignore when someone jostles past him and mutters, “Move, fag.”

Mike twists around in surprise, but whoever it was has already pushed off into the crowd.

“What?” Will is staring up at him. He didn’t hear it.

Mike gives up scanning the crowd. There’s a knot in his stomach - a voice in the back of his head chanting, _not good, not good, not good._

“Nothing,” he says. Will gives him a skeptical look and he tries to smile. “Nothing. Watcha wanna do after this? Twizzlers and a movie?”

Will rolls his eyes. “Whoa. Calm down there, party animal.”

Mike can tell he hasn’t quite succeeded in diverting the subject, but by the time the Party wanders out the doors and into the snowy night, the moment has passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! I'm so sorry this took so long, we just moved house like a week ago and I've been having a crisis like every other day and whoooo it's a mess. But I finally got it up!  
> Please do let me know what you think! I always love hearing your thoughts.


	6. A Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: period-typical homophobia pretty heavy in this chapter.

Karen tosses the glossy scrap of paper aside and digs into the mess again. It’s been a week and a half since prom and Mike’s tie is still crumpled on the floor. Honestly, that child. Has he even cleaned his closet since -?

Her hands slow, then stop. Her head turns. The long strip of photo paper, crisp-edged and slightly curled, lies face-down on the carpet. It had fallen out of a book she picked up, and her gaze barely flicked over it before she was reaching for the next item on the pile.

She’s been cleaning all day. Nancy came home from college days ago and the house is still a wreck. She meant to get it nice before she arrived, but somehow it just never happened. Now, her hair is shoved up in a loosening knot, the back of her shirt is damp with sweat, and her knees ache from kneeling. She’s been scrubbing and dusting and polishing since lunch time. It was on her way to the bathroom that she happened to glance into Mike’s room and - well, it’s filthy. Clothes everywhere, books everywhere, homework scattered to the four corners. Half the household’s cups and plates are balanced precariously in little piles. And he’s been out all day - he said he’d be at Dustin’s after school, she thinks, or was that yesterday? - and he’s been so busy with finals coming up, so...

She was trying to do something nice for him. Tidy up his room a little instead of yelling at him to do it himself. Maybe that’d earn her a hug or a grateful smile instead of the tired teenage routine of sarcasm. That’s the only reason she’s in here. That’s the only reason she scooped up one of his heavy old fantasy books from where it was half-shoved under the bed. Now -

Karen’s fingertips catch the edge of the paper and flip it.

It’s a photobooth strip. Specifically, it’s from the space-themed photo booth in the middle of that new mall. The background is black with cartoon stars, and the caption at the bottom reads, _Out of this world!_ Her eyes zero in on the second to last picture immediately. She was right. She did see it. Her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her.

The first picture features Mike aiming his fingers at Will, as if pointing a gun, while Will aims his own imaginary weapon right back. In the second they’re laughing, looking at each other instead of the camera, and clearly mid-way through lowering their arms. The third is harder to make out. A bit blurred, like they were moving fast. Either leaning in or just breaking apart. It had to be one of those two, because the image, though a tad fuzzy, is unmistakable. Their faces - lips - are pressed together - as in, _lips pressed together,_ by no accident - Will’s hand cupping Mike’s jaw -

They’re both laughing again in the last picture, Mike’s hands covering the lower half of his face, and Karen slams straight through the floor of shock into something much colder. Something dark and sickeningly heavy twists in her stomach.

_No..._

She looks again - she doesn’t want to, but she looks - and her breath stutters as she stares at the picture of her son. How his cheek is bunched up by the tip of Will’s nose. How his jaw is relaxed, like - god - like his mouth is _open_ -

Her feet and calves tingle. She’s been sitting on them, kneeling on the ground, for minutes straight. She hadn’t realized she was going numb. She swallows.

When Mike was four, he stepped right off the top of the jungle gym and sprained his ankle, banged his head up pretty good and had bruises all over his hands and knees for weeks. It’s one of the moments she regrets most, from any of her kids’ childhoods, mostly because she just _wasn’t paying attention._ She was reading some magazine. Keeping half an ear out, but not watching. She should have been watching.

Mike was her second. Her sweetest. Nancy was headstrong and stubborn since she could crawl, but Mike was a sweet little boy. And Karen felt so bad - _so_ bad when he fell. She ran across the gravel playground in her heels to pick him up. She remembers stumbling in the pebbles, scooping him up and trying desperately to shush him, thinking, _oh, Mikey, I’m sorry - I’m so sorry - I should have been there - I should have paid more attention -_

Her hand claps down over the photo strip, covering the images, and her head turns. But, no. There’s no one at the door, no one at the window. Of course not. No one else is home. Ted is at work until six, Nancy went out with friends, and Mike said he was going to Dustin’s today after school. Holly is still at her playdate with the Ferguson’s little girl. Karen is alone, and the big house all at once feels suffocating. She bends the stiff paper in half, creases it, and slides it deep into the pocket of her ratty work jeans. It pokes and prods at her thigh through the thin fabric of the pocket as she descends the stairs. Her numb feet burst into prickles with every step.

This is her fault.

There’s some wine in the fridge. They had it with the salmon last night, and the bottle is still at least half full. She takes down a glass with remarkably steady hands and pours. Just halfway. Not to the top of the glass; she needs to think.

The cold, sick knot in her belly has only gotten worse, but she drinks her glass steadily.

Will. Of course it was Will. Karen has always liked Will, of course. He’s a sweet kid. Smart. Polite. He’s been a good friend to Mike since they were just a little over knee-high. But she’s not too shocked that he - well, there’s a _type,_ you know. Even in a nice, conservative, cozy little town like this, it happens. It does happen. She knows that all too well. And Will Byers has always been kind of a _sensitive_ kid. They had plenty of words for boys like him, back when she was in school. She’s sure they still do. So, she’s surprised - but not shocked. And it’s not that she thinks he’s a bad kid. It’s not like she can blame him. You don’t blame somebody for getting the flu, do you? And Will really is a good kid. Really. He just needs a little time - a little help - not that it’s her business.

But _Mike?_

The pads of her right fingertips come up to massage the bridge of her nose. Will pulled Mike into this. And that makes it her business. She’s sure that’s how it happened. It must have. Mike wouldn’t...

She stops, the rim of her glass just barely touching her lower lip. Mike wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t._

Right?

She can’t be so terrible of a mother that she never noticed. This has to be a new thing. Something he was pressured into, or swept up in. It’s not like this has _always_ been there.

But it was there. The more she thinks about it, the more she tries to convince herself that the kiss was a one-time thing - a joke, even - the more she knows she’s wrong. She can just tell. It’s a gut feeling.

This is her fault.

And it’s not fair. She did everything right. She forgot about it, honest to god. But it snuck back anyway - snuck right past her and into her child, right next to her brown eyes and wide mouth.

She has to do something. This is her fault. She has to do _something._

Mike hasn’t taken the car today, and it only takes a few minutes to find the keys and her pea coat and get out the door. It’s a bit of a bumpy ride, thanks to downing the wine too fast, but she swallows and forges on. She’s fine. She can still drive after two glasses; one is no problem. Mike left the radio on high volume, and she leaves it there. She’d rather hear music than her own thoughts right now, even if it’s that crappy modern-pop stuff.

 _“I have a tale to tell,”_ the radio tells her. A sharp corner of the photo paper jabs into her hip. _“Sometimes it gets so hard to hide it well. I was not ready for the fall; too blind to see the writing on the wall. A man can tell a thousand lies; I've learned my lesson well. Hope I live to tell the secret I have learned; 'till then, it will burn inside of me.”_

Karen realizes all at once where she’s going, and steps down a little more firmly on the gas. She will fix this.

* * *

Mike grins.

He’s been keeping a very close ear on his mother’s progress through the house. She came down the stairs to the main floor a little while ago, paced the kitchen a few times, and now the front door is closing with its familiar _whoosh-squeak-boom_ rhythm. She didn’t even poke her head into the basement to yell goodbye. Although, she was vacuuming when they said hi on the way in, so it’s possible she just didn’t know they were home. Which is fine by Mike. They’ve been back from school for at least an hour, and most of it was spent trying to beat a dungeon in Zelda. Most of it. For the past few minutes, though, Link has been stuck on pause.

And now Mike doesn’t have to split his attention between Will and the footsteps upstairs. He can concentrate wholly on readjusting his legs over Will’s, tilting his head to accept a nuzzle at his jaw.

“Mom just left,” he says, and Will hums an affirmative as he lifts his head again. He’s been in a cuddly mood today, and they’ve had to wait through the whole school day. Which, by the way, sucked.

Today was one of those impossibly long, slow school days just near the end of the year, when every class feels three hours long and even the teachers are clearly done. The sky has been low and flat and gray, but not quite heavy enough to rain. The air tastes thick with moisture, and the school hallways felt twice as muggy as usual. Seniors have been flying around in a haze of jittery excitement, talking nonstop about graduation robes and class rings and colleges and yearbooks. Everyone else has been talking about the summer. And Nancy, whose summer already started a week ago, spent the whole morning before school badgering Mike about his hair, about school, about the car. Now that she’s two years deep into her degree she seems to think she’s his second mom or something. Damn infuriating.

In short, it’s been a long, slow day. Full of finals study guides, sub-par cafeteria nuggets, restless students and worn-out teachers. And Mike couldn’t be happier to be on the couch in the basement, with a video game blinking on the screen and Will sinking into the cushions beneath him. And now they have the house to themselves.

If only his mother knew what was happening ten feet below her, just minutes ago.

A burst of noise makes Mike startle, flattening himself over Will. His head whips around, but -

Just the radio turning on. Again. It’s been doing that; something bogus with the battery, probably. Or the wiring. And Holley knocked it off the table yesterday, which couldn’t have helped. Still, Mike wasn’t expecting to suddenly hear a voice halfway across the room when no one else was supposed to be home.

He huffs and hoists himself up, heart rate slowing again. “We gotta check that thing for gremlins.”

Will’s laugh is just a bit forced. He was probably a little spooked too.

Mike clicks the radio off right in the middle of _Faith_ by George Michael, then pulls out the batteries for good measure. He doesn’t want it going off again. Interrupting.

Will is sitting up by the time he gets back to the couch, but he hasn’t resumed the game. The remote is still on the floor where it fell, cord snaking across the carpet.

It doesn’t take long for them to get back to where they were. And then further.

* * *

The little tree-shaped air freshener swings wildly from the rearview mirror. It gives off a woodsy scent, like pine needles and firewood, and Karen takes deep, slow lungfuls as she navigates potholes. She’s trying not to panic, but she is. And that damn song is stuck in her head and she wishes it would just give it a _rest_ for a second. She needs to think.

It’s almost ironic. Or maybe just a cruel joke of a universe. She snorts and shakes her head, swinging around the eroded dip in the dirt road that they still haven’t fixed since two years ago.

Ironic. That Karen is going back to her now, for this. But step one is getting some help. Someone on her side who can help make this right. She can’t face it all alone; she’s smart enough to know that, at least.

She turns onto the long driveway, and the little cardboard tree flails on its string.

* * *

Will actually gasps when his shoulders slam down on the couch cushion. For a second Mike is afraid he knocked the wind out of him, but Will just tilts up to reach his mouth and snarls a hand in Mike’s hair. His scent rises from the heat of his skin, clean and vaguely earthy and swirled with the undertones of the charcoal and pastels they used in art class. And something else. Something a little heavier, a little darker. Something Mike has come to associate with stolen moments like this. Will smells like _want,_ and Mike barely manages to repress a shudder as something hot and restless surges up in his lungs.

It’s like a cosmic scale has tilted. With the house to themselves, they don’t have to worry. They don’t have to be on guard. They’re safe. And Mike swears it took under a minute for them to hurdle straight from _cozy_ to _heated_ to _desperate._ Maybe because they’ve been waiting all day.

Will breaks the kiss to pant, and his deep breaths lift his ribcage under his shirt. Their eyes meet as Will’s tongue swipes over his lips. He shifts to settle himself into a more comfortable crease in the cushions, and Mike knows he should be moving, but he just stares and breathes deep breaths of his own. Will is a mess. His hazel eyes are dark and hooded, and his mouth is red from kissing. The soft fabric of one of his well-loved button-up shirts is wrinkled and twisted on his frame. One hand trails down Mike’s arm, having released its grip on his hair; the other is soft and open next to his head, palm upturned and fingers curled. An impulse sends Mike’s fingers folding into Will’s. His heartbeat throbs in his fingertips where they’re pressed to the back of Mike’s hand.

He didn’t realize until now how horny he is. Or that he’s apparently been grinding down against Will. The embarrassment only lasts for a few seconds, though, before it melts away under Will’s curious blinking. He’s not sure why it’s hitting him all at once, but he’s too high-strung to be embarrassed. Not tense; he’s not nervous. Just unforgivingly _here._ Hypersensitive. Every little throb of Will’s pulse through his hand is like a drum beat; his shirt is too soft over the skin of his chest, uncomfortable. He’s half-hard and getting harder, and his whole body bears down for a second as he dives to tuck his nose to Will’s pulse point. Will’s breath stutters, but he doesn’t move.

It’s like coming abruptly out of a fog. A moment of clarity. Mike breathes in Will’s scent, feels him trembling beneath him, and he understands all at once. He has to be the one to do something. He wants this. He’s not level-headed enough to know what _this_ is, just yet, but he _knows_ he wants more than what they’ve had so far. And he’s willing to bet money that Will does too. And Will clearly isn’t going to go for it, so that leaves Mike.

“Mike?” Will half-whispers. His voice flutters right in the middle of the soft exhalation, and Mike noses at his throat one more time before sitting up. Will’s pulse is a hummingbird in his hand.

It’s a risk, but a calculated risk, and Mike takes it.

* * *

Three sharp knocks ring out in the Byers’ front yard. Too loud. Karen glances over her shoulder, but the driveway is empty except for the ugly tan-beige car she shares with Mike and Joyce’s Pinto. She faces the door again. She has the script looping in her head. _I’m so sorry I didn’t call first, but it’s important. It’s about our sons. I need to talk to -_

The door opens and what comes out of her mouth is, “I need to talk to - did you know about -? I need to -”

Joyce, bewildered, steps aside to let Karen shoulder inside. She waits until the door is firmly closed behind them, and then half-lifts her hands. “Is anyone else home?”

Joyce has the wary posture of a wild animal. Her hands wring in front of her, but her eyes are keen as ever. There’s a dark water stain on the stomach of her faded flowery blouse, and the sharp-clean scent of lemony dish soap hangs around her. She’s been doing the dishes.

“No,” she says at last. One of her hands comes up to grip Karen’s shoulder, guiding her to the kitchen. The smell of artificial lemon grows stronger.

Karen can’t accept the seat Joyce offers. She paces instead. She wants to handle this well, but -

“Do you know what our sons are doing?” She whips the picture out of her pocket. Brandishes it towards Joyce’s expression of concern. Anger is rising up, hot and slippery, probably to cover up the tremor in her voice. She can’t be weak right now. She has to be angry, or she’ll break.

Joyce reaches out. There’s something curious in her expression, and she plucks the bent photo strip from Karen’s fingers. The wrinkles at either side of her mouth deepen as she stares down at the damning evidence.

Joyce sets the photos down on the table and turns back to her dishes. She digs her hands into the water, and Karen mouths soundlessly. She’s not reacting how she should. Maybe she doesn’t understand, maybe -

And that song - that god _damn_ song - is still stuck in her head. Taunting her. _“_ _I know where beauty lives; I've seen it once, I know the warmth she gives. The light that you could never see; it shines inside, you can't take that from me.”_

Karen takes a stride forward so she can address Joyce’s profile. “Didn’t you see that?” she asks. “Our sons are engaging in... in...” Joyce’s brows lift, but she doesn’t look away from her dishes. Karen spits it out. “In homosexual behavior!”

Joyce slaps down the dish towel with a snarl. “ _Keep_ your voice _down._ ”

“Didn’t you see it?” she asks again. Three steps take her to the table and she snatches up the picture again. “Look at this. And I should have known, I should have seen the signs - the clothes, the secrecy, the lies -”

Karen is starting to sob. So much for being strong and angry.

But that’s all right. Joyce has _angry_ down all on her own, it seems. She stalks across the kitchen, chasing Karen into the doorway, hands dripping soap froth. She always has been beautiful, but she’s glorious when she’s angry. Powerful in a way that Karen doesn’t think she could ever achieve. “And so what?”

“So we - we - should do - something -” Karen stutters, and Joyce’s face goes through a ballet of expressions. None of them happy.

She thrusts out a hand, palm-up. “Give me that.”

“No.” The photo strip goes back into Karen’s pocket. She needs this. For evidence. It’s all she has.

Joyce seems to think for a moment, fire blazing in her deep brown eyes. Her eyes haven’t aged a single day since high school. Then her posture shifts, and she holds up both hands like she’s placating a small child.

“Karen. Let’s slow down.”

* * *

Everything keeps going faster and faster. It’s so easy he’s almost surprised. Like picking up speed on a hill. The momentum carries them both without effort, one domino tumbling into the other. Mike’s mouth is buried against Will’s, hands grasping, and Will presses up into him with a choked little _mmph._ He can feel Will’s ribs shift under his skin, through his shirt. He feels so small, in that moment, though he’s not that much smaller than Mike anymore except in height. In fact, being in track has given Will more definition than Mike has ever boasted. You wouldn’t know it unless you saw him like this. Up close, with the lean muscle of Will’s arms winding around Mike’s shoulders with vice-like strength.

He can tell almost immediately that this time is different. And that in itself sends a sharp crackle of heat through the cradle of his hips. Because Mike pushes, and pushes further, and Will doesn’t pull back. All teeth and tongue and fingertips slipping under the hem of  Will’s shirt and heavy breaths. They’re moving together, rhythmic, slow and then a little faster. And Mike pushes further still. He pushes them past where they usually stop, into new territory, and _Will doesn’t pull back_ \- not when Mike’s shirt has been rucked up nearly to his collar bone, not when there’s no pretending that they haven’t been grinding against one another, not even when Will arches up to sink his teeth into Mike’s neck. This time, he doesn’t turn off, doesn’t turn away.

Mike’s whole body _thrums_ with energy, a familiar ache gathering where their hips roll together. It’s silly, but what sets off the flush of shyness in his cheeks is that it feels _good._ Not that he expected it to be bad, that is, just - he didn’t expect - he huffs out a breath against Will’s cheek and his head ducks instinctively. He didn’t expect to lose himself like this. He didn’t expect to be swept up in waves of pure physical _feeling_. But now that they’re headed down this hill, picking up momentum until the speed feels dangerous, it’s like they can’t stop.

In a burst of stomach-twisting bravery, Mike pulls back an inch or two and hooks one finger into the back of his collar. Uncertainty swims in his guts like eels, and then he’s yanking it over his head and it’s too late for doubt now.

A touch at his ribs makes him jolt. His eyes flick up, but Will’s gaze is down. Dragging over Mike’s bare skin. It’s not much; he knows. Somewhat scrawny, with not much more than a thin layer of stomach fat. Some freckles. A scar on his left shoulder from where he hit a mailbox on his bike when he was eight. Kind of skinny arms. Will has seen him shirtless before, of course, but this is different. This isn’t swimming in the public pool or changing after gym class or hanging out on the Byers’ back porch on the hottest day of July.

Mike almost goes to say something - an apology, maybe - but then Will looks up. Their eyes meet for the second time, and all at once everything in Mike goes taut. He feels trapped, and it makes his dick throb almost painfully in his jeans. Something deep in the instinctual stem of his brain is shivering, goosebumps forming over his neck and forearms.

Will blinks, once. And then he _snaps._ One second Mike is hovering over Will, bare-chested and blushing so hard his face could cook an egg, and the next thing he knows he’s being flipped right off the couch. His back hits the floor and he winces, and Will cups the back of his head in an apology. That lasts barely a second, though, before the barrage begins. Will’s mouth hits Mike’s hard enough to hurt, and he doesn’t ease up even at Mike’s little exclamation of surprise. He just tugs at his hair until Mike has to tilt his head and kisses him again. Like it’s less a gesture of affection, at this point, and more just... possession. His palms are hard on Mike’s skin, shoving, yanking. He’s crouched over Mike on elbows and knees, something almost unsettling in his eyes when he pulls back half an inch.

Mike’s hips stutter, completely out of his control, but Will doesn’t pull away from the thrust. He just grins against Mike’s mouth, readjusts his grip, and grinds down. Mike’s lips part in a hard huff. He could tell before, but there’s absolutely no denying it now. Will is as hard as Mike is. It’s too late to be shy now - far too late - but Mike can’t help hiding his face in Will’s shoulder as pleasure spikes through him. Will pulls his face up by the chin, waits until Mike looks him in the eyes, and then rocks against him again until his breath hitches. He feels a vague sense of triumph, somewhere under the layers of sensation, but he’s too far gone to puzzle out what that means now.

Will’s hands have left Mike’s torso. They’re moving down the line of buttons on his shirt, flicking them out on by one. Mike goes to work at the other end and their fingers meet in the middle, fumbling, and then the fabric of his overshirt parts and Mike’s hands bury underneath. Will shucks it like a shot and tugs the undershirt over his head with a growl of impatience. When Mike half sits up to reach for another kiss, it’s softer. Less demanding. Will cards his fingers through Mike’s hair, and his tongue laps out against Mike’s lower lip. Mike allows himself to be pressed down again, gently this time, and sighs at the immediate heat of skin-against-skin.

Will hesitates for the first time when he moves one hand from Mike’s shoulder. They haven’t spoken a word, so far, and Mike can’t bring himself to break the silence even when Will’s eyebrows lift in question. He just nods, and then nods again to Will’s expression of incredulousness.

* * *

“It’s because of me,” Karen wails at last. They’ve been bickering back and forth for the past five minutes - maybe ten, maybe fifteen, she doesn’t know - and neither is making any progress. And now, at last, she dredges up the truth from the place she thought she buried long ago.

“What are you talking about?” Joyce’s voice is flat. Smoke rises in a gossamer ribbon and billows around her head, but the cigarette has smoldered untouched for the past few minutes. She taps it on the ashtray but doesn't quite get around to taking a drag.

Karen can’t bring herself to admit it again. The old fear in her ribcage is too strong, choking the words before they can form. So she just shakes her head wordlessly and pleads, for the hundredth time, “They need help.”

“Bull-fucking-”

“It’s not their fault, just -”

“Shit!”

Karen throws her hands down from her face and snaps, “So we should just let this happen to them?”

Joyce laughs. “Happen? Don’t you remember being that age?” She takes half a breath, then adds, “Being in love?”

Karen doesn’t like the glint in Joyce’s eye, doesn’t like it at _all,_ and her voice goes low and dangerous when she says, “I got better.”

The song loops in her head, tormenting her with the only few lines she can really remember. _“The truth is never far behind; you kept it hidden well. If I live to tell the secret I knew then, will I ever have the chance again?”_

Joyce is standing, putting out her cigarette, walking to the sink again. She half-turns to look down at her friend, steely-eyed. “Do you care about either of our sons at all?”

Karen blinks. “Yes, of course I -”

“Then keep your mouth -” Joyce points the dishrag at her. It drips dirty suds onto the kitchen tiles. “Shut.”

And she goes back to washing dishes.

* * *

Will’s touch is cautious, curious. Mike can only hold his breath and try not to move. Even through a sturdy layer of denim, plus boxers somewhere underneath, it’s a struggle not to push up into the touch. Will’s eyes trail down and then Mike can’t watch anymore, and he hides his face again under the guise of leaving bruises up and down his boyfriend’s neck. Will twitches and groans, low and muted, as Mike sucks hard enough to leave a clear mark. His palm flattens against the front of Mike’s jeans, and then traces up the clearly-defined shape within, and that’s it. That’s all Mike can take. He pulls back, just an inch, and Will retreats at once.

“Sorry,” Will whispers, but Mike is already shaking his head. He finds the back of Will’s skull with one hand and draws him into a kiss, and they end up back on the couch before too long. Just kissing, now. Mike is still rock-hard in his jeans, and he can’t seem to calm down for several long minutes.

They’re still shirtless when they finally locate the controller again. The basement is chilly, but neither of them wants to admit to being cold; they just lean together for as long as they can, before a door opens upstairs and they have to pull their shirts on again. Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo the drama begins! LOL. After this the story picks up quite a bit from the slower introductory chapters, promise!  
> Please do let me know what you think! I love hearing your thoughts; and don't you sillies ever apologize for "ranting" or leaving long comments or being incomprehensible, because that stuff is a writers' sustenance. We live off of that sh*t.  
> Thank you again for reading! I'd apologize for the wait between updates but let's be honest, I'm in the second half of the semester now. It's all downhill from here.


	7. Soap and Rumors

Mike braces the heels of his hands against the Byers’ bathroom sink and tilts his head in the mirror. He’s looking for changes - differences. Does he look any different than he did a month ago? Some glint in his eyes, maybe, or a mark on his skin? Well. He twists his head further and tugs down his shirt collar. Marks on his skin are hardly an anomaly at this point. Two hickeys bloom on his skin just below the collar of his shirt. He’s starting to think Will does it purposefully, just to mark him. Max spotted one at school today and jumped on him, teasing and wheedling and ribbing until he had to make up some vague story about a girl in study hall. Later, he found her quirking a skeptical eyebrow at him from across the classroom. He can only hope it doesn’t mean that she tried to fact-check him.

But the light at the end of the tunnel is within sight. They only have three days until summer vacation, and then they won’t have to face the whispers in the hallways for a whole three months.

Will brought it up again a couple days ago. Telling the Party. And Mike almost considered it this time. Troy’s been spreading his bullshit, and it’s been putting Mike on edge. Ultimately, it’s fine. It’s fine. Dumb rumors spread around like this all the time. They catch on like wildfire, sweep through the school, and then they’re forgotten within a few days and the masses move on to something else. Will’s suggestion was that they tell the Party before some half-truth makes it there first, and - well, it does make sense. Really. But he’s just not ready. He still has to convince _himself_ that this is okay, that he’s allowed to do this, that the universe isn’t going to abruptly collapse on him the next time he touches Will’s hand or lips. How is he supposed to face all of his friends and just hand himself over like that? He could barely do it with Will, and that was an exceptionally unique circumstance.

Mike shakes his head and pumps two globs of soap into his palm. He knows that conversation is going to come up again. It always does. But for now, Will has let it go.

He takes a deep breath as he washes his hands, and almost smiles. Joyce has been buying the exact same scent of hand soap for the bathroom for approximately fifteen years. It’s a bright, cirtrusy lemon-sage scent that Mike will always, always associate with the Byers’ house. With sleepovers and after-school playdates and Will. He’s been washing his hands at this sink, with this soap, since the very first time he visited. Five years old, with chubby cheeks and a bandaid on his knee, ecstatic to have made a new friend - a new friend who had a _huge_ backyard, no less. This smell is something that has never changed since.

In the dining room, Joyce is trying to get Jonathan to set the table. She glances towards Mike as he enters and watches him for just a beat longer than normal. Then she turns to the kitchen and says, “Mike, get Will, would you? Food’s ready.”

She’s been acting weird lately. Not _super_ weird, just weird enough that Mike and Will have been theorizing about what’s up. Will thinks it’s the approaching end of the school year. Jonathan is one year closer to graduating college, Will is one year closer to graduating high school, and Joyce is starting to get overly maternal about it. She took them both by the shoulders the other day, like she was measuring their height, and shook her head.

“Weren’t you just knee-height?” she said, and Will ducked away with a laugh of, “ _Mom._ ”

Now, when Mike locates Will and they make an appearance at the table, she gives them one of those too-long thoughtful glances again. Will tilts his head at Mike when she’s not looking and rolls his eyes. Mike huffs out a silent laugh, and they start eating.

* * *

Joyce flicks her sleeve out of the way and checks her watch.

“Okay,” she says, “We have about... about twenty minutes before we need to leave.”

Jonathan nods amiably through a bite of potato. He doesn’t even roll his eyes at her or say, _I know, Mom._ He’s been in a better mood now that his semester is over. He’s home for good now, for the summer - no more long daily commutes to campus. No more nightly homework. She’s almost as relieved as he is. He’s been storming in and out for the past few weeks, returning home late at night with bags under his eyes, spending all his time either doing or avoiding homework and studying. His relaxed smile is a welcome change.

The younger boys still have a few more days of school before their vacation starts.

Across the table, Mike pushes his tomatoes onto Will’s plate when he thinks no one is looking. Joyce, mid-sip, pretends she can’t see past her cup.

It’s things like that. She wouldn’t have noticed them before, and wouldn’t have thought anything of them if she did. But now that she knows what they mean, she can’t stop seeing them. Mike didn’t used to push his least-favorite foods over onto Will’s plate. He didn’t used to sleep beside Will in bed during sleepovers, or reach out to straighten Will’s rumpled shirt collar. Will didn’t used to show up at home wearing shirts that Joyce _knows_ she didn’t buy for him. He didn’t used to spend hours on the phone, talking quietly, or playfully needle Mike until Mike pushed him off in exasperation. If she didn’t know, all of it would have slipped right below her radar. But she does know. So she does see.

The problem is that Karen knows, too.

Joyce sticks a forkful of chicken into her mouth and frowns down at her plate. It would be fine, if Karen wasn’t so bound and determined to squeeze her life into a little box labeled _perfect._ It’s been that way since high school, when she was a cheerleader with a flawless blonde ponytail swinging behind her.

Now, clearly, Karen can’t be trusted not to blab about this. The very first thing she did was go and tell Joyce all about it, for Christ’s sake. Next she’d be on her way to her husband or worse. A counselor or a doctor; someone who could do real damage. Ted is the best-case scenario, but Joyce doesn’t particularly want him getting into this either. Because she knows how that would end up. Spineless as he is, Ted has firm opinions about queers and what to do with them.

Joyce works at her dinner, deep in thought, while the boys talk. She knows she handled that whole conversation badly, but what else could she do? She was unprepared. Maybe if Karen hadn’t stormed in like a bat out of hell and burst into tears in her kitchen, she would have come up with a better response. For now, it’ll do. She did what she could. It’s not her battle; she knows that. She’s struggled with that since the Demogorgon. Stepping back and watching her kids struggle - especially Will - is hard for her. She wants to protect them. The government is bad right now even in the biggest, most progressive cities. Reagan. The AIDS panic. Talk of “electrotherapy.” And this isn’t a big city, this is Hawkins - so, they’re smart to be hiding. And they’ve been doing a pretty good job of it, until they slipped up with the photobooth strip.

Through dinner, Joyce debates. She could sit them down, after the last day of school perhaps, and tell them about Karen. She _could,_ but - should? No, she decides eventually. They’d just panic. And plus, they don’t exactly want Joyce knowing about them either; if they did, they would have told her. It’s best to just leave them alone.

She checks her watch again and inhales sharply, nearly choking.

“Oh, god. We’re gonna be late.”

She and Jonathan scarf down the last of their food and drop their plates in the kitchen.

“Do you mind clearing up?” she says as she slings her purse over her coat.

Will shakes his head. “I got it.”

Jonathan leads the way out the door, heading for his half-broken car. This is the last drive to campus he’ll have to make all summer. She promised him she’d go with him to a celebratory end-of-semester, student-run concert tonight. Or maybe it was a play? She’s been so busy lately that she forgot it existed until Jonathan mentioned it this afternoon.

They hop into the car. It’s still so _weird_ to her to be riding in the passenger seat while her son drives.

“Okie dokie,” she says, clicking her buckle into place. “Off we go.”

* * *

“We don’t have -”

“No, no, it’s fine. I mean, I’d like to.”

“We really don’t have to.”

“Will,” Mike laughs. The laugh comes out a tad forced, and Will’s lips flatten with skepticism. “It’s fine.”

The knobs of the bathtub stare out at them like two blank eyes, the nozzle drooping into a shiny elephant’s nose between them. The overflow drain cover makes a round mouth, completing the face. They’re standing in the small bathroom, near the sink. Mike’s elbow nearly knocks the soap over when he turns.

Will looks at him like he’s studying him, searching for signs of discomfort or untruthfulness; Mike lets his hands lie slack in his pockets, trying to exude ease and confidence. No big deal, right? It’s just a shower. Hell, they took a bath or two together when they were really little. He just wasn’t expecting it, is all. He’s just surprised. Not nervous.

Will gestures with one hand, movement a little stilted. “I just thought - well, we both had to shower, anyway, so. We don’t really have to waste the water to do it - you know - separately.”

Mike quirks an eyebrow. “Waste water? Really? You’re going for the _saving water_ excuse?”

“Shut up,” Will grumbles, and pulls his shirt over his head.

Mike peels his sweatshirt from one arm, then the other, and then tugs his own shirt off a little self-consciously. He folds them both, for no real reason, and sets them on the ground before going about the business of undoing his belt. Will, meanwhile, kneels shirtless beside the tub to get the water going. It sprays over his outstretched hand, the force of it splaying his fingers. Mike hesitates a moment, faced with this untested boundary, and then tells himself not to be a pussy and kicks off his pants. One leg, and then the other. He folds those too, a little haphazardly, and tosses them on the pile on top of his shirt, sweatshirt, and belt. Will’s shirt is in a crumpled heap near the foot of the sink, and as Mike pretends to check the temperature of the water for himself, a pair of jeans plops down next to it. He’s been consciously avoiding eye contact, trying to act casual and unconcerned, but now he finds himself staring at Will’s pile of clothes as one final piece hits the floor: blue striped boxers.

Will cranks the knob and the showerhead sputters to life. The curtain rattles as pulls it closed, and Mike lets out a long breath. _Are you gonna shower with your underwear on?_ he chides himself, and finally pushes his own boxers down his hips and toes them onto the pile of clothes. The next hurdle: actually lifting his eyes from his feet. He can’t stand here on the other side of the bathroom for much longer without it becoming awkward. His time is up; he has to move across the tiles and meet Will’s eyes.

“Ready?” Will says, as if showering requires some special preparation.

Mike just nods and follows him around the curtain and through the spray of lukewarm water. Will fiddles with the knobs until it turns warm, then hot.

“Oh,” he says, and makes a move like he’s about to change it again. Then he decides against it with a shrug. “You can turn down the heat if you want, I just - I dunno, I’m weird. I like to shower in boiling water.”

Mike nods sagely. “Mm. Yes. Why just clean yourself with soap when you could scald off the first layer of your skin entirely?”

“Exactly.”

It’s becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore how naked they both are. Which is, you know, a given. They are in the shower. Showering. And it’s a tiny, narrow space, slippery with water and thick with steam, so there’s not a whole lot of buffer room between them.

Thus far, Will has been acting very blasé about this whole venture, but now Mike gets a glimpse through the nonchalant front. Will is the one avoiding eye contact, now, and he mumbles an apology when they bump elbows. The tension is broken when they lock eyes and both burst into laughter, giggling uncontrollably at the sheer awkwardness of it all, and when Will steps into the stream of water both of their movements are looser. This is okay. Mike can do this. Not a big deal.

Will’s head tilts back, face lifted to the hot water, eyes closed. He rakes his hair back from his forehead with his fingers as the water plasters it down against his head. And Mike, standing in the billow of steam not a foot away, takes his first real look at the figure in front of him - up and down. He didn’t really plan to, but he can’t resist taking the quickest glance of curiosity - barely a flicker. And then another, slightly longer look as Will snorts water out of his nose and wipes it out of his eyes.

Mike has always been a jarring mosh-posh of opposites. Sharp angles and too-long limbs. Dark hair against pale skin, hands too big and hair too wiry. Not quite _curly_ \- not like characters in movies with their handsomely messy curls. Just kind of weird and aggressively wavy, like it gave up halfway between textures. Freckles goddamn everywhere, like acne that doesn’t go away. And of course, that vaguely amphibious face that he’s never been able to escape. When he was a kid he could have passed for cute-ugly - like those smash-faced little dogs. Now that he’s grown out of his baby fat, he’s just weird-looking.

Will, on the other hand, seems to fit together much more coherently. His skin is peaches-and-cream, with the barest hint of a tan hanging on from last summer - half a shade darker than Mike’s. Slender, nimble fingers - artist’s fingers - and limbs strengthened from track. He’s still small and slight, like he has been since they were little kids, but the running has given him a kind of lean, powerful build. The water turns his hair from chestnut brown to near-black, and it moulds to the curve of his skull and neck. Tiny beads of moisture cling to his lashes where they lie against his cheeks. The water sleuces down his shoulders, down the curve of his back, and -

And now Mike needs to grab some shampoo or soap or _something_ because he’s definitely checking out Will’s ass. And he’s almost surprised when he finds himself glancing at his dick. Surprised, as if he wasn’t acutely aware that they’re naked in close proximity. As if he expected anything else to be there. _Goldfish, perhaps?_ he thinks to himself dryly, splashing water onto his arms just for something to do. _A polaroid camera? Leo Tolstoy’s_ War and Peace _?_ He starts reciting multiplication tables in his head to ward off the boner that _almost_ just happened.

When Will finally opens his eyes, Mike is busy locating the soap. No sign that he was checking anyone out just a second ago - no sir. You can’t prove anything.

“Here,” Will is saying, moving out of the stream of water, and Mike hands over the bar of soap as they switch places.

Standing underneath the spray of water gives him an excuse to close his own eyes for a moment. The water weighs down his hair and he uses the brief respite to breathe deep, soaking in the warmth. Then he opens his eyes again and now he’s in deeper trouble because Will is lathering up the soap bar between his hands, and the scent is all around him. Ivory soap. Clean and light and vaguely masculine. Something almost like liquorish, but not as strong or sweet. It’s the same scent that stuck in Mike’s head like a song when they stood together in the aisle of the bookstore, so close they were nearly touching. The same scent that he breathed in when they stood in the dappled light of the forest, and in the arcade, and the back of his car, and the couch in his basement.

Mike grabs the shampoo and starts scrubbing it into his hair. He could be imagining it, but he thinks he sees Will’s eyes slide over him. He rinses the suds out of his hair, feigning ignorance, and when he emerges from the water Will is an inch away. Tilting in for a kiss.

Hot, soapy fingers wrap around Mike’s shoulders, and Will kisses him with the spray of water hitting them both in the side. Mike’s pulse picks up, his blood a medley of nerves and adrenaline and arousal tempered with uncertainty. He can’t will away his hard-on anymore, and for a moment he draws back. Will’s eyes open in question, so close that Mike can make out all the miniscule details in the streaks of hazel. The ring of olive green, the sunburst of warm brown. A drop of moisture hangs, shining, from the curve of his lower lip. It falls as Mike watches, joining the little streams that flow over his chest and shoulders, and Will’s grip loosens.

“You okay?” he asks, and somehow that’s what does it. If Mike shakes his head and steps away - if he withdraws in embarrassment and breaks their embrace - Will isn’t going to stop him. He’ll let Mike go. They’ll soap off and rinse and get out of the shower and go on with their day, and it would be fine. And that, more than anything, is what reassures him most.

He teeters for a moment between decisions, and then his head moves in a nod. “Yeah,” he says, and relaxes into place again. “Yeah.”

Will gives him one more searching look, to make sure, and then - gently - eases him back against the wall.

A noise of protest rises in Mike’s throat as his ass and shoulders hit the cold, slick tiles, but it fades quickly under Will’s mouth.

Will’s body is just as hot to the touch as his palms, skin warmed by the mildly scalding water, and slick with soap. Mike is sandwiched between the chilled wall and the heat of Will’s skin, and he leans into the kiss. Parts his lips to run his tongue over his boyfriend’s. The kiss is familiar territory. They’ve done _this_ more times than he can count. But they’ve never made out with quite so little clothing between them, and now they’re pressed together toes-to-shoulders, nothing _but_ skin. Hard flesh bumping up together. Mike couldn’t tamp down his arousal now if the water turned freezing cold. All the muscles in his body have pulled taut, abdomen contracting with every breath. He shivers and kisses back until Will has to break away to breathe for a second.

Mike’s only intent is to move away from the chill of the tiles. Honestly. But Will’s stance just happens to shift at the exact moment that Mike tries to push them into the warm water, and his push turns into a sharp and completely unintentional thrust.

Their breath stutters in sync as they rub together, and Mike is just about to laugh out a strained apology when Will pushes back. Once, twice, almost like he’s testing it out. Mike bites back a groan at the friction. Then Will falls in even closer, one forearm braced on the wall by Mike’s head, and starts grinding against him. He catches Mike’s lip between his teeth and Mike swipes his tongue into Will’s mouth. His body is reacting all on its own, matching Will’s rhythm, breathing hard. Pleasure lights up in the pit of his abdomen with every thrust, sinking coils of tension throughout his body.

Will is panting, too, his hard breaths puffing out against Mike’s cheek, and when he breaks the kiss to bite down his neck Mike actually moans. He cuts the noise off abruptly, red-faced, and he swears he feels Will huff out a laugh. Will noses along his throat until he reaches the junction between Mike’s neck and shoulder. There he stops, and Mike grits his teeth. Will knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s learned, in the past weeks, to hone in on that particular curve of skin. Maybe some tangle of nerves is housed just beneath the flesh there, because Will has simply to nip at it and Mike’s limbs go weak.

Now, Will nuzzles right at the crook of Mike’s neck and shoulder, mouth curved up in an impish grin. Mike narrows his eyes, stubbornly resisting the urge to tilt his head and give Will better access. That lasts for about five seconds before Will grinds against him again, pinning him more firmly against the wall, and Mike tosses his head aside with a half-irritated and half-impatient sigh. Will wastes no time in sinking his teeth in, and Mike squirms at the twinge of pain and then nearly shudders with a different kind of ache. Will is a force to be reckoned with, all reaching hands and soft tongue and desperate, unchecked energy. He sucks a bruise into Mike’s neck and when he pulls back, Mike is surprised not to see a smug grin on his face. Instead, Will’s eyes are dark and his expression is urgent.

“I want - can I touch you?” he whispers. Whispers, even though the water drowns out their words and there’s no one else home anyway.

“What?” The words process half a second after Mike speaks, and something like a sledgehammer bangs into his chest, setting his pulse into a frenzy.

Will’s throat moves in a swallow, but he maintains eye contact as he repeats, “Can I touch you?”

Mike’s nod is slow, but definite. Will’s eyes go round - like he can’t believe Mike agreed. Mike kind of can’t believe it, either. But Will’s right hand is already moving, fingers flexing as if in preparation, and he barely has time to feel nervous before he feels the first touch. Will’s palm is still coated with a slick film of soap lather, and his touch is nearly frictionless. His exploratory grip tightens after a moment and Mike’s breath hitches. Will’s eyes flicker up, over his face, and then back down. Watching his efforts with a focused gaze. In some distant corner of his mind, Mike feels like he should be imploding with shame, but not a whisper of it reaches him now. Will’s hand pumps over him, grip tight, and Mike’s own hand has never felt this good. He can’t believe he pulled away from this last time. Now that the milestone has been breached, his hesitance is quickly flaking away and running down the drain with the water.

Will’s thumb swipes over the head and Mike’s hips jolt, out of his own control. And Will, picking up on the reaction, repeats the touch again, again, every time his fist bobs to the head of Mike’s dick. Mike bucks into his hand with a clipped groan, and - there we go. _There’s_ that smugly triumphant grin.

Will has this thing, Mike has noticed, where he wants to see Mike’s face during these moments. Like he’s studying his expressions. Everyone always says Mike wears his heart on his sleeve, so he supposes that makes sense. Usually it makes him a little squeamish - being watched so closely during such a vulnerable moment often makes him withdraw into his shell, even though it’s just Will watching. But not this time. He’s so lost in the steady throb of sensation that he doesn’t mind - barely even notices - when Will uses his free hand to pull his chin up and locks eyes with him. This time, as Will’s hand pumps over him in a rapid tempo, Mike doesn’t feel the urge to pull away or look down. Will stares right into his eyes, so intense and so single mindedly focused that it could be frightening, if Mike was fully rational. He doesn’t think he could break eye contact if he wanted to. He pants into the steam-smooth air between them, little noises rising up the back of his throat with increasing frequency, and Will seems to soak it in like a sponge. Like he’s reveling in it, thriving, like his energy is feeding directly off of Mike’s tremors and groans.

“Will,” Mike breathes, and Will’s tempo quickens. Mike’s head thumps back against the hard tiles, then rocks forward again to meet Will’s hard kiss. Teeth and tongue and Mike can hear the obscenely wet sounds of Will’s hand on his flesh over the roar of the shower. He moans against his mouth, past caring about trying to stop the sound. He can feel his body jerking, the strength draining from his limbs and gathering somewhere near the base of his spine, and he wants to slow down. To draw this out, make it last. But Will won’t let up, and Mike can only kiss back clumsily as Will pushes him closer and closer to the edge.

He hangs on for barely a minute or two longer before the blood pounds in his ears and he comes into Will’s hand with a jagged thrust.

He’s out of breath, heart pounding, and the tiles behind him are no longer cold. They’ve been warmed by his skin, and when Will kisses him again he braces himself gratefully against the wall.

As they kiss, and Mike pants through his nose to catch his breath, he feels Will’s dick press against his hip. Still hard.

“I could...” he says as soon as they lean apart. He’s not bold enough to finish that sentence, so he just reaches out, pausing as Will’s face fills with surprise.

“Yeah?” Will mumbles, and Mike nods. It’s only fair. And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. He’s come this far; he may as well.

He moves blindly until he feels hard, stove-hot skin under his palm.

Now he knows why Will seemed so intent on taking in Mike’s reactions. Mike has barely started stroking - up and down and up again, getting a feel for it - and already Will is practically melting against him. Mike braves a look down, watching Will’s stomach cave as Mike gets a steady rhythm going. It’s at once intimately familiar and completely alien - the weight and shape of Will in his hand.

It doesn’t take long at all. Will must have been close to the edge before Mike even touched him, because barely a minute passes before he groans against Mike’s throat and goes still.

Believe it or not, they actually do soap off and shower, after that.

* * *

It’s Thursday the 27th. The second to last day of school.

Everyone in Drama kept singing the refrain of _One Day More_ until Mr. Mello turned on the radio in exasperation. Now, as class wraps up, _Small Town_ is playing on the local radio station - appropriately enough. Mike hums along with the country-ish tune as he shoves his things into his backpack.

_“Well I was born in a small town; and I live in a small town. Probably die in a small town. Oh, those small communities; all my friends are so small town, my parents live in the same small town. My job is so small town; provides little opportunity.”_

It’s been a pretty good day, actually, despite the stress of finals. He only has a couple tests left, and those are tomorrow. Their final projects in this class were completed earlier this week, so today was a fun day. Skits and improv, and then a few minutes of free time. Now, the lunch bell rings and Mr. Mello lifts a hand and yells, “All right, I’ll see y’all tomorrow! Leave your worksheets on my desk on the way out!”

The upbeat country song fades behind him as Mike is swept out into the hallway by the crush of bodies. Chatter, laughter and random yells fill the air. Anticipation for summer is palpable.

Will intentionally slams into Mike’s back, sending him nearly stumbling forward.

“Ugh,” he sighs, falling into step next to Mike and ignoring the middle finger aimed his way. “That test was bullshit. She said there wouldn’t be any material from last semester on it, but guess what?”

“I guess there was material from last semester on it,” Mike dadpans, and Will groans. “Well, it’s over now.”

“Almost. I’ve got another one right after lunch and one tomorrow. You?”

“Two tomorrow.”

Mike moves to get the door as they enter the cafeteria, then catches himself. Right. He’s not supposed to do that.

Will brought it up yesterday. Mike has, allegedly, been treating Will like “the girl,” every once in a while. Holding the door, offering to pay for things. Just little stuff like that. But apparently it was starting to bug him. Mike has been trying not to be annoyed about that. What else is he supposed to do, just let the door close in his face? (Apparently the answer is, _yes._ )

He’s working on it.

Their usual table is empty except for El when they arrive. Max slumps in soon after they do, grumpy and sporting dark bags under eyes. She just grunts when they greet her and drags a study guide out of her notebook. It’s another five minutes before Dustin or Lucas show up - which is weird. Usually they’re the first ones here.

When they appear, their expressions are sour. They sit down with a glance at each other and poke at their trays.

“What’s up with you guys?” Mike says through a bite of sandwich.

Dustin shrugs, a little stiff. “Just Troy again.”

“As usual,” El drawls.

Will picks apart his own sandwich like a reverse one-man assembly line. “What’d he do this time?”

“Just spreading rumors around,” Lucas says quickly, and then nods to El. “Like you said. The usual.”

They bend their heads over their food like they’re trying to avoid eye contact. Will looks at Mike and they both make _I dunno_ faces at each other.

Mike decides to poke the bear. “What?”

Dustin takes his time in chewing, and then swallows and says curtly, “Just some bullshit. You know how he is. It’s just the usual -”

Lucas cuts in to rip the bandaid off. “He’s telling everyone you two have been fucking.”

Mike chokes on a sip of juice, coughs, and meanwhile Will pulls off an impressive facade of confusion and mild amusement.

“Us?” Will says, blandly, like they’re discussing the weather. Mike is abruptly, deeply grateful that at least one of them isn’t a complete open book.

Max thumps him on the back until he stops coughing and pushes her off.

The Party is scrambling to reassure them.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about -”

“Troy’s been blowing hot air for so long that everybody just tunes him out at this point. He ran out of material like three years ago.”

“Yeah, no one’s gonna believe him. Don’t sweat it.”

Mike, having finally recovered, summons up a wry grin and says, “I can say with one hundred percent confidence that we haven’t been fucking, no.”

Beside him, Will makes a very quiet noise in his chest, like he just tried to swallow and cough at the same time. When Mike looks over, he’s covering the lower half of his face with one hand, clearly trying hard not to laugh. Then their eyes meet and the whole thing has backfired because now Mike is struggling to suppress the nervous laughter bubbling up to his own lips. The Party is laughing, tension easing, moving on to topics of finals and summer and whether all ketchup is created equal. El and Max join forces to shout Dustin down in the ketchup argument. And Will and Mike exchange a look that says, _that was close._

* * *

It’s not until the second to last class of the day that Will hears the whispering.

He looks up just as Justin Cobbler steps up to his desk, gap teeth showing prominently behind his thin lips. He’s got a friend with him. Paul something-or-other, Will thinks. Solidly built guy. Glasses. He doesn’t know either of them except in passing. The class just broke to do a worksheet, and the room is full of chatter and activity. The teacher has given up on enforcing any kind of order.

“So,” Justin says, “Is it true?”

Will glances down at the paper on his desk. _#1) Solve log_ _5_ _3x_ _2_ _= 1.96. Give x to the hundredths place._

“Yes, it’s true,” he says, flatly. “X does truly equal plus or minus two point eight.”

Paul Something crinkles his eyebrows and looks down at the paper in his own hand. He starts buffing out pencil marks with his eraser.

Justin shakes his head and says, “No, is it true that you got with Wheeler?”

More whispers, and this time Will pinpoints the source. There’s a group of friends huddled together two tables over, watching but trying not to be too conspicuous about it. One of them looks away when he makes eye contact. Will looks back to Justin - clearly the elected spokesperson. There’s a mean glint in his eye, and in the eyes of those watching, and Will knows it doesn’t really matter what he says. They don’t really want an answer, they just want to see what he’ll do. Will just has to decide how to play this.

The spokesperson goes on. “James said they saw Wheeler giving you a blowjob at prom.”

Will assesses his tone in a split second and chooses a response. He reclines in his chair and gives a slow, Steve-ish grin. “Damn, I _wish_ prom was that interesting.”

“Don’t we all,” adds the other guy, Maybe-Paul, and Will fake-laughs along with their real laughs, hating it.

The spokesperson still doesn’t look convinced, so Will adds, “You sure James wasn’t just daydreaming aloud?”

His stomach twists as soon as he says it. That was unfair, deflecting suspicion onto James like that - not that James is an especially great person, but still. The guys chortle to themselves and move back to their own table, Maybe-Paul still muttering about the log equation, but Will can’t feel proud of the accomplishment.

He knows he’s fucked the moment he turns back to his paper and none of the numbers make sense. His pencil taps at the wood of his desk, but it doesn’t fade. There’s a tightness in his chest that won’t loosen, a frantic adrenaline rising. He grips his pencil harder and stares at the paper until it starts to make sense again. He won’t do this today.

Some girl across the room has been humming the same song repeatedly for the past ten minutes, and Will thinks if he hears it one more time he’s going to snap. It would be better if he could just remember the lyrics, but they escape him. He recognizes the melody, but the words are just beyond reach.

It isn’t fading. Guilt and worry stew together like a chemical reaction in his chest, catalyzing the anxiety that pulses in his veins until it bleeds into panic. He hunkers down in his chair and sets his jaw, determined to wait it out. He can tamp it down. He can. He will. He’s not gonna do this today. Not because of this.

 _Notorious._ That’s the song she’s been humming. He glares across the room at her as she starts from the top again, but she’s oblivious to the death rays being beamed at her head.

The thoughts keep coming back, nudging at him. _The truth’s out now. Why did you think you’d be safe? You chose to do this, and now it’s gonna come back and bite you in the ass._

 _Shut up,_ he hisses at it, but he can’t stem the steady flood. His breath is starting to come in sharp little gasps. The girl next to him gives him a look that’s part weirded-out, part concerned.

The second the bell rings he’s out of his seat and bolting for the AV room. The panic nips at his heels as he power-walks through the crowd, driving him to move faster. There are too many people, all around him, elbows and hair and feet pressing in on all sides. The lights are too bright for his eyes, the crowd loud as a revving motorbike.

He makes it to the AV room and prays that it’s unlocked. It is. He slams the door behind him and locks it.

There are only three keys to this door. The janitorial staff has one, somewhere. Mr. Clarke has one. And the third resides with the president of the Hawkins AV Club. No one will follow him in here.

He can still hear the chatter of the crowd, but it’s muffled behind the thick wood of the door. He flicks on the lights and they buzz to life, a soft yellow - not as unforgivingly bright as the hallway. He makes his way across the room, bracing himself on the table. He could navigate this space with his eyes closed. In the logical part of his mind, he knows it’s a familiar place - a safe place. But the logical part of his mind is less and less in control.

Will makes it to a far corner, underneath an old Apple poster, and slides down the wall. His ass hits the cold floor a little harder than he meant to, and he works his arms out of his backpack straps. He props it up behind him as a pillow. He’s doing a little better just at the moment - breathing easier, able to concentrate. Time to regroup and prepare. But he’s been through this song and dance too many times to count, ever since he was twelve. He knows how this goes. It comes in waves. The intensity and length depends on how bad the attack is, but he knows better than to think he can go back to class now. He’ll probably be in here for another half hour, if not until the end of the school day. He can only be grateful he already took his test for this class.

He has maybe three minutes to breathe and rest before he feels it rising again. He can tell it’s a bad one before it even hits. Resigned to his fate, he hugs his knees to his chest and listens to his own lungs race out of his control. His surroundings shift and blend like a magic eye picture and he tucks his face down behind his knees. The ground is cold.

 _You’re not there,_ he tells himself, but he’s not quite sure anymore. Again he thinks, _you’re not there anymore,_ but this time it’s more of a wish than a truth. Pins and needles travel up and down his fingers, his hands, his arms.

He dragged Mike into this. This is his fault. He fucked up. The truth is out now. Everyone’s gonna know, and Mike’s gonna hate him for dragging him down with him, and it’s his own damn fault because he fucked up, he fucked up, _he fucked up -_

Dizziness creeps into his head, and that charge of pins and needles pulses and builds up in his fingertips. Panicked, confused, he clasps his hands to try to suppress it, but a spark the size of a baseball _bangs_ between his hands as soon as they meet. He cries out in surprise, and he can’t tell if that’s slime and roots underneath him or just the cold AV room floor, he can’t tell -

There’s static crawling through his hair like ants, static making his clothes cling to his skin. Beyond the tangle of his arms and legs, the lights flicker. Will gives a dry sob. It’s coming. It’s coming and it’s his own fault. His hands jam against his ears, trying preemptively to block out His voice, but then he moves to cover his face instead. The lights flicker again, red and black through the flesh of his fingers. The radio on the desk turns on with a _pop_ and blares static, and he peeks out to see dials oscillating. Equipment on the shelves lights up and beeps. A battery-powered R2D2 toy that broke long ago powers up, beeps and whistles, rolls right off the top shelf and falls with a crash. The lights strobe on and off and Will can’t block it out with his hands, he can still see it, and then one bulb bursts entirely and he feels like his whole body is a live wire, alight with blinding white energy that won’t stop -

Desperate, dizzy, Will blindly thrusts out one hand and discharges the current in one great burst.

Everything stops.

Slowly, his head lifts. It’s dark. Pitch dark. His right arm is numb to the shoulder. He tries to flex his fingers but can’t tell if they’re moving or not.

In the valley between waves, he thinks, _I can’t do that again. I can’t. I need to control this._

Sparks pop and flicker in the spaces between his fingers, and then die away with a fizzle. It’s been quiet lately, barely noticeable. He’s had plenty of distractions to keep his mind busy. Finals, and his brother on break, and a new book series, and Mike. He’s been putting it off, ignoring it. But he can’t ignore it anymore. Not when _this_ is happening. He has to learn to control it.

That’s the last real coherent thought he has before the complete darkness breaks him down into hysterics.

The next thing he really registers is a touch on his shoulder, jostling him. His head whips up so quickly that he cracks his skull against the wall behind him, and he’s pushing himself away across the floor but -

Mike. It’s Mike. Mike’s voice, Mike’s hand on his shoulder.

“Let go,” Will gasps, and Mike does.

Mike is in the Upside Down, how did - ? Wait, no. They’re not there. He’s not there. The lights are on. When did the lights come back on? The power grid must have come back online after -

“Hey, hey,” Mike is saying, and Will tries his hardest to slow his breaths but he just can’t stop. His lungs are working like the bellows of a forge, pounding fast as train pistons.

“Lock the door,” he manages, and Mike says, “I did. It’s locked.”

Will nods. Good. That could buy them some time if it comes looking for them. Not that it really matters. Solid walls are no problem for the Demogorgon.

His forehead hits his knees again and he curses himself for this. For letting Mike see this. Normally he’d hide this away from his friends - even his family. When he was younger, it just made everything so much worse to see his mother walk on eggshells around him, to hear his friends change the tone of their voices when they talked to him. So he learned to put a closed door between this and the rest of the world. He kept quiet and out of the way, and when it was over he’d go rejoin his friends or family with an excuse. He’s plenty strong enough to handle this on his own. He’s not weak, and he doesn’t need anyone looking at him that way.

But Mike - Mike talked him through one of these, once. The Halloween just before the Mind Flayer. Now, like then, Mike kneels next to Will on the ground and says, “Are you okay?”

And now, like then, Will latches onto his best friend’s voice like a life raft. No, his _boyfriend’s_ voice. Will remembers that all at once and looks up, meeting the pair of dark eyes. Mike reaches out when he doesn’t answer, and then pauses and says, “Is - can I touch you?”

All at once, Will barks out a watery laugh. It’s an exact echo of what he said himself, just this Tuesday - god, was it really just two days ago? - but so very different. _Can I touch you?_ He nods.

Mike settles next to him, one arm wrapping cautiously around Will’s shoulders. When he doesn’t protest, Mike pulls Will more firmly against him.

“Slow down,” he prompts, and Will makes a face.

 _I’m trying,_ he thinks. _Try telling my lungs that._

Mike takes a deep, slow breath to demonstrate. Will squeezes his eyes shut against another wave of, _hide, you have to hide, you have to run or he’ll find you, it’s your fault, this is all your fault, run run run._ When it passes and he opens his eyes again he throws himself into slowing his breath, trying to match Mike’s.

“Where is it?” he gasps out the next time he has breath, and Mike says, “What?” When Will can’t respond he guesses, “The Demogorgon?”

Will’s head jerks up and down. “Is it -?”

“No.” Mike’s arm squeezes around him. “It’s dead. Long dead, remember? You’re okay. Nothing else is in here, it’s just us.”

Will nods again, wanting desperately to believe it, but it takes him another half hour to finally ride out the last spike of panic. Another half hour of trembling and gasping and hearing Mike’s voice talk him through the worst patches. Calm, steady, patient. And when it finally fades, Will rubs the grit from his eyes and apologizes. Over and over, and Mike will have none of it.

“Why can’t it just leave me alone?” Will bursts out, in the middle of Mike trying yet again to convince him that he doesn’t need to be sorry. They’re still sitting in the same corner of the AV room, ignoring the fact that they’re supposed to be in class. Will scuffs one shoe along the floor. “It’s been years. Why can’t...”

“It’s... a lot better than it was...” Mike ventures, and Will tosses his hands in the air.

“Sure. I guess. But I don’t - it doesn’t -” He lets out the rest of his breath and settles back against his backpack. He picks at a crack in the floor, loathe to admit what’s going through his mind. It’s only very quietly that he says, “Maybe it’s me. Maybe it _did_ end years ago, I’m just - _I’m_ what’s wrong.”

“Will -”

“It’s like I can’t get it off of me - like it’s stuck to my skin. No matter what I do, just... it’s still there.” Will’s fingers wrap around his own forearms - not hugging himself but restraining himself. “It’s like I never really got it out of me. After -”

After the fire, the tunnels, the shed, the heat from all sides burning him alive.

Mike is quiet. Will shuts his mouth and curses himself for ever opening it, but then -

“Were you there on the day that Mr. Clarke introduced the unit on cells?”

Will makes a face at him. That was years ago; he barely remembers. “Yeah, I think so.”

“And he was talking about how the cells in our bodies are constantly regenerating and being replaced?”

“Sure.”

Mike is getting on a roll, gesturing with the arm that isn’t wrapped around Will. “He said that every seven years, every single cell in our bodies is replaced - every _single_ cell.”

“Yeah, so?”

Mike’s chin dips, his eyes widening a degree as he delivers his point. “ _So,_ in seven years, you’ll have a body that the Mind Flayer never touched.” Will stares at him. Mike takes a half-breath and adds, “And every day, a little bit more of you is completely new.”

Mike shrugs his shoulders, like he’s embarrassed of his short but passionate speech, and Will blinks. He never thought of that. And it doesn’t fix everything - not _nearly_ \- but somehow, it helps to balance out the stutter in his diaphragm. For now, it’s enough. And he turns and crawls into Mike’s lap to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaaaa so this chapter was twice as long as usual. Honestly I could have cut it in half but like. I could also just. Throw it all at you at once. Heh.  
> ANYWAY high highs and low lows in this chapter! I would love to hear any thoughts you have, especially since this is our first real smut scene (whoo!) and some sad Will.  
> Thanks for reading! I'll try not to make the wait between chapters so long next time but like. Y'all know me.


	8. The Calm Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS IS SO LONG. It was that or post two short chapters, but like cutting it down the middle really disrupted the flow so... yeeeaahhh.

It’s officially summer vacation.

Cue celebratory Alice Cooper.

On the way home from the Wheeler’s house the morning after the Party’s traditional end-of-school-year D&D sleepover, Will takes a detour past the school. A blocky maintenance truck is still parked near one of the side doors, equipment spilling from the back. As he rides by, the school janitor steps out to talk to one of the maintenance guys. They gesture towards the school, smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand, and Will faces forward just in time to avoid skidding into the fence.

The last couple days of school were punctuated with scenes like this. On Thursday, a surge in the power grid swept through nearly three blocks of Hawkins, Indiana, blowing bulbs and scorching wires. The school seemed to take the worst of the damage. The resulting blackout only lasted a few minutes until power was restored to the area, but it’s the talk of the town nevertheless. Townspeople grumble about the new power company; students swap tales of the school going dark. And Will? Will rides past, wondering how expensive that’s all going to be to fix.

That can’t happen again. He can’t _let_ that happen again.

He needs to learn to control it.

His bike sweeps down the curve of the road towards the outskirts of town. The Party congregated yesterday, the moment school ended, and they’ve been celebrating ever since. Will took every opportunity to pull Mike away and kiss him, almost wishing that someone would come around a corner. Almost. He knows they can’t risk that. He knows how squeamish Mike is about anyone finding out. And Will understands - of course he does. He knows perfectly well what could happen. But - but. Maybe it’s selfish, but just once he wants someone to see. To know. To prove to them that - what? To prove to _himself,_ maybe, that this is real.

But morning came and the sleepover drew to a close without incident, and now as Will bikes the last leg of the journey home, he plans. He’ll need something metal - lots, actually. Different kinds. And some electronic stuff he doesn’t mind possibly getting blown up - old toys, maybe.

At home, he heads straight for the recycling can. A jumbled mess of plastic, cardboard, and - yes - assorted metals gleams up at him.

Bingo.

* * *

 He feels a little silly. It’s all set up. Empty soup and soda cans all lined up on a plank of wood propped up between two crates (what passes for a “bench” in the shed). Nuts and bolts sprinkled a little ways away. One small toy car, battery-powered, idling beyond the bolts. The radio is placed near the door, switched on to a pop station for some background music. Door itself closed; rubber gloves: on. They’re technically dishwashing gloves, but his mom never uses them - and anyway, he needs a failsafe. If the energy gets out of control, he can pop on the gloves. Avoid electrocuting half of Hawkins again.

But now, as he tugs off the gloves and sets them aside, he feels silly. Especially when he stretches out a hand towards the row of cans, awkwardly, like a little kid trying to use the Force. He lets his arm drop, blows out a sigh, and paces to the radio to flick through stations. Maybe he can find a good song. He’s been keeping his ears perked for songs to put on Mike’s mixtape - songs that remind him of Mike, or of them, together. He has about fifteen songs on the list, so far. Soon he can start on the actual tape. It’s cheesy, he knows - but then again, Mike kinda likes cheesy shit like that. And it feels good, doing something like that for Mike - for his boyfriend.

Will lands on a station announcing _Control_ by Janet Jackson. Hm. Not quite mixtape material, but it’ll do for now.

He twists the volume up a couple notches and returns to the chalk line on the floor, about six feet from his targets.

_“_ _This is story about control,”_ the song begins, over a backdrop of buzzing instrumentals. “ _My control. Control of what I say; control of what I do; and this time I'm gonna do it my way. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do. Are we ready? I am. 'Cause it's all about control; and I've got lots of it.”_

Okay. Okay. Time to do this. On purpose, this time. Will bounces on his toes, takes another long breath, and closes his eyes. Now that he’s actually trying, he can’t feel even a fizzle of the power that felt so hopelessly out of control in the AV room. He tries to focus, to remember what it felt like. The fizzing tension that started somewhere in his spine and spread like static to the tips of his fingers. That pricking, sparkling buzz, like his blood was carbonated. He tries to summon it up, but it’s like reaching for goldfish; every time he gets close it darts away, frictionless and elusive under his mental grasp.

This isn’t working. He opens his eyes.

How does El do this? How did _he_ do this? In the AV room, or when he shoved Troy down in the hallway for kicking Mike, or when he jolted awake from a nightmare and gave his boyfriend a solid shock in the arm. Or, hell, even that day at Castle Byers, when he was so nervous he thought he might retch into the bushes or... or...

He stops pacing and turns to look at the line of empty cans. That’s it. The common element. It’s defensive. All those times, it bubbled up from inside him with some strong emotion. Panic, anger, fear, anxiety.

And Will kicks at a post in the wall in frustration, because that _can’t_ be it. He carries too many negative tokens from the Upside Down already. Nightmares, half-memories, panic, snappishness, sleeplessness, doubt... This can’t just be one more item on the laundry list of what’s wrong with him. It won’t be - he won’t let it.

No. There have been good times, too.

The song on the radio bounces along, blithely cheerful as Will’s jaw sets in determination.

There have been good times. There have. Like in the principal’s office just after standing up to Troy, when sparks snapped between his fingers under the table. Or in the Palace, where he could feel the energy all around him, humming, pulsing like a heartbeat, invigorating. Or on the evening of that one sleepover, a week before Prom, when Mike kissed him and he had to pull back for a moment to force down the swelling current that nearly reached his hands.

For the second time, Will’s hand lifts. When has he been happy? He thinks of dancing with El in their prom attire, goofing around like siblings. He thinks of the Party encountering a vaguely face-shaped rock and interrogating it for no good reason, Max and Dustin rolling for intimidation with faces red from laughing. His mother, smiling to herself and shaking her head as he wrestled Jonathan for the last serving of cereal. Charcoal staining the pads of his fingers. The reddish packed dirt of the track field, marked with lines of white chalk. And Mike.

Will always, even as a kid, thought that he’d be alone. Until college, at least, or maybe forever. There aren’t many people like him in a small, conservative town like this, and Mike? Mike would be horrified if he knew how Will felt about him. At least, that’s what he always thought. But now he thinks about Mike’s nervous little shrug when their eyes met at Castle Byers; Mike’s lips quirked up in a tiny smile every time Will falls back after a kiss; Mike’s fingers zippered into Will’s with a grip like he doesn’t want to let go. He thinks about all the things he never thought he’d have. Dates, and quick kisses when everyone else is around the corner, and Mike. Mike’s head on his shoulder, dead asleep, the weight of it turning Will’s whole arm tingling-numb, but he wouldn’t move in a million years.

_“First time I fell in love,”_ the radio pipes from the corner, at the edge of Will’s attention. _“I didn't know what hit me. So young and so naive, I thought it would be easy.”_

He doesn’t think, he just exhales and unfolds his fist, barely flinching at the cloud of tiny lightning strikes that crackle around his palm. The little storm dies away quickly, leaving his hair floating on end and his clothes clinging to his skin with static, but it’s near the surface now. He can feel it again, if he just reaches and -

_Oops._

A razor-thin arc of electricity strikes a nail in the wall catty-corner to the radio. A fine ribbon of smoke curls from that section of plywood.

He tries again with squared shoulders. He will do this.

_“Now I know I got to take - control!”_

Energy jolts down his arm, and six feet away, blueish sparks buzz inside the nearest tin can.

_“Now I’ve got a lot - control!”_

He tries again, _pushing_ the current down the length of his arm, flinging it - it misses and hits the floor, leaving a small, dark burn.

_“To get what I want - control!”_ Janet Jackson croons.

Will relaxes his arm, shakes it out, and aims again.

_“I’m never gonna stop - control!”_

The white-blue arc hits the lip of the soup can with a sharp, satisfying sound. It sits, silent and seeming almost bewildered, for a second and a half before the paper label catches on fire.

_“Control.”_

Will steps back, realizing too late that he’s panting, hands shaking hard enough that he can feel it all up his arms. The exhaustion hits him a second later and his knees buckle, sending him to the ground in an awkward heap of limbs. There he slumps, legs crossed, elbows braced on his thighs. Panting. He’s winded - sore, like he just stumbled off the track field.

The label quietly burns itself out, one corner curling into ash, and then there’s just the smell of smoke and ozone and singed metal, and the radio cheerfully singing away to itself behind him.

He’s gonna need some help, he realizes all at once. Somebody who knows how all this works. Someone who’s had experience with stuff like this.

When his strength returns, Will stands and locates the gloves. He stuffs them over his hands again, just in case, and makes his way inside to the phone.

* * *

 “What the hell, Mike?”

“Language,” intones their father. Mike and Nancy continue to tussle, ignoring him.

“Yeah, what the hell, Mike?” Holly parrots, and their mother slaps down her fork with an exclamation of, “ _Language!_ ”

Everyone drops back into their seats, silent but suppressing laughter. Will dutifully keeps eating his cornbread, eyes alight with amusement but keeping to his own corner of the table. Nancy scrapes hot sauce off of her food with the flat of her fork, glaring, and Holly mimics the expression from across the table. When Nancy is off at college, Mike can barely escape his little sister - but now, with the prodigal daughter home for the summer, Holly is one hundred percent Team Nancy.

It’s been a grand total of two and a half weeks since she got back, and Mike is tired of her already. Seriously. He barely missed her, and anyway, it’s not like he’s glad she’s back. She’s a pain in the ass. That being said, he’s never gonna pass up the opportunity to dump hot sauce on her food just to start a poke-war at the table. Just like old times, before she went off and left him practically alone in the house with their parents.

“We don’t say those words,” their mother is saying to Holly, eyes wide to show that she’s serious. “Okay? And big sister shouldn’t be saying them either.”

She shoots a look in Nancy’s direction and Nancy jabs a hand at Mike. “He was -!”

But their mother is already turning back to her husband, saying, “At least Hart dropped out of the running.”

A hand grazes along the knee of Mike’s jeans, and he tilts his head to send Will a small smile. He doesn’t take his boyfriend’s hand, though, and after a moment Will just squeezes his knee and retreats. They can’t risk that; not with his parents here.

Although, Mike reflects as conversation starts up again, his parents are in an unusually good mood tonight - mainly because they’re talking about politics, one of the only topics they actually agree on. At least they’re talking to each other. Having a real conversation. Mike watches them over his glass as he takes a sip. His mother’s eyes are keen, voice strong and clear as she leans into the conversation, and his father is actually responding in full sentences for once. It’s a good night.

At least, it is until Ted says, “I mean, they’re bleeding us out. More and more and more taxes.” The flat of his hand cuts through the air with each _more_ . “We’re supposed to pay for everything. Why should _we_ have to fork over our hard-earned dollars for... for what, more hospital rooms for homosexuals with aids?”

Mike meets Nancy’s eyes across the table as all three of the younger generation pull _oh god, here we go again_ faces. Even Holly senses the spike in tension and frowns through her bite of chicken. Ted plows on, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere.

“You know, when I was a kid we didn’t have any of that. People didn’t go to hospitals, they went to church.”

Mike stuffs his own mouth full of roast chicken and stares down at the decorative yellow-ish flowers that line the circumference of his plate. _It’s nothing to do with you,_ he reminds himself. _It’s fine. He doesn’t know. No one knows. It’s not about you._ But still, heat starts to pool in the tips of his cheekbones and crawl up his throat.

His father keeps talking. “Maybe that’s the problem. That’s why there are so many of them nowadays - I mean, you see it all the time. There are articles in the papers. People go marching around with signs trying to beg special privileges from the government -”

Nancy makes the slightest noise in her throat, but Ted rolls on.

“I’m just saying, no one was gay when I was a kid. Television is all people care about, these days - people stopped paying attention to religion, and now there’s this new phenomenon -”

Karen cuts in with a lukewarm retort, and Mike terraforms his cornbread with a hard grip on his fork, thinking, _oh, please. That’s not even really what you think. You don’t give that much of a shit about church, you just heard it on the news and now you’re parotting it because it sounds impressive and for once you have everyone’s attention._

And that’s all it is, really. This happens nearly every time Nancy comes home from university - with all of his kids gathered in the same place, and his wife in a good mood, Ted makes some attempt at imparting fatherly wisdom. Sometimes it comes off well enough. Other times...

Well, other times he goes off on a rant about the healing power of prayer and how maybe if more people made room in their lives for what’s _really_ important, they wouldn’t be “waving signs around begging for attention.” Mike tries his best to just shut it out. Nancy’s face is going through a ballet of expressions, Holly is offering her stuffed tiger bites of her food, and Karen is nodding along, thoughtfully. Mike starts mentally singing the finale of last semester’s musical as loudly as he can, hoping the topic moves on soon.

He tunes back in around the time that Ted is wrapping up his speech, hands folded on the table in front of him.

“In our modern world, not enough people pray anymore.” He gazes around the table, secure in the assumption that everyone is learning from his patriarchal wisdom. And then, earnestly, confidently, he delivers the moral of his lecture. “The most powerful position you can take is on your knees.”

Mike tries. He really tries. But the laughter pops in his diaphragm anyway, making him half-choke on his sip of milk. His father’s face is completely serious, and Mike sputters silently into his napkin to disguise the laugh.

And then, with equal sincerity, Will replies. “I completely agree.”

Mike’s subdued sputtering crescendos into a bark of startled laughter, quickly camouflaged into a series of staged coughs. Which then turn into genuine ones. His chair squeaks across the floor as he stands, trying desperately not to imagine Will on his knees.

“‘Scuse me,” he manages between spasms, and then he’s fleeing the dining room with his napkin plastered over his face to hide the deep flush. He sees his mother’s mouth twitching on the way by, like she’s trying to suppress a giggle of her own, and then their eyes meet for a split second and he looks away again.

He makes it to the kitchen and spends at least a minute hacking up some speck of milk that lodged itself in his windpipe. Eyes watering, face burning - not from the coughing fit, or even from the spasms of involuntary giggles that keep jiggling his shoulders, but from that thought that’s stuck in his brain now. That image. Will. On his knees. Hazel eyes sparkling with mischief as he -

Mike coughs harder and begins to silently recite multiplication tables. Anything to ward off the situation in his jeans that almost just happened.

He returns to the table with his composure on firm lockdown. He’s not thinking about it - not even a little bit. Not even when the conversation has long since moved on to Holly’s part in her elementary school play, and her horror at having to wear a sheep costume. Not even when Mike feels another soft touch at his thigh and jumps so badly that the tines of his fork squeal against his plate. Will squeezes his leg, gently, and then the questing hand flips over and bares an open palm. Mike’s eyes flit back and forth between his parents, both wholeheartedly focused on their youngest as she chatters. Will’s hand is a soft weight just above Mike’s knee - and this time, he takes it.

If anyone notices Will eating with his left hand, no one mentions it.

* * *

 “He doesn’t even _believe_ that stuff!”

Mike swings a solid kick at the pillow, which is still lying in a lump on the ground where he slapped it down a moment ago. He mostly misses and his toe catches the very corner, flipping the throw pillow over with a muffled little _thwump._

“He doesn’t give shit about - about _prayer_ or whatever bullshit, since when did he give a shit? Since when did _anyone_? Mom hasn’t made us go to church since Holly was a baby.”

He snatches up the pillow and hurls it down again, and this time it flattens against the carpet.

They’re in the basement. String lights plugged in. Door closed, with a blanket stuffed against the crack underneath to block sound. Will is curled up in the corner of the old couch, watching Mike pace in circles, and Mike is - well, Mike is yelling.

“He just heard it on TV.” The pillow takes another hit. “And now he’s vomiting it back up because it makes him sound -” And another. “- like he knows -” Another. “- what he’s talking about.”

Mike finally slams the pillow against the opposite end of the couch, running out of steam. He throws himself down beside Will, then slides from the couch to the floor with a groan. Will scoots across the cushion to sit just behind him, and Mike rests his head on Will’s knee.

“God, I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.”

“Mm-hmm,” Will hums simply - which Mike knows from experience is his way of saying _you’re being a drama queen_ without actually saying it.

“I mean, you heard all that _bullshit_.” Mike jabs a hand towards the staircase, as if indicating everything and everyone beyond the basement door.

“Yeah.”

He can feel Will’s hands as they begin to thread through his hair, absently, stroking it as he thinks for a moment. Eventually he murmurs, “Just one more year.”

Will’s fingers drag through his hair, carefully working through the occasional tangle, but all at once Mike feels the muscles in his shoulders harden with tension. He half-turns to look up at Will. “... and then?”

“And then we graduate, dummy.”

“Yeah, I _know_. But -”

He cuts off, sheepish. He doesn’t want to say that there’s a keen, swelling anxiousness in the pit of his gut - a fear that they’ll graduate, and get accepted to different colleges halfway across the map from each other, and then... then... then what? Would they be long-distance? They might keep it up for a while, but they’d have different lives. _Separate_ lives. They’d talk less and less. Months would go by between visits, and then years, and...

Mike’s lips push together as he fights a pulse of emotion that seems to heat up just behind the mask of his face. He can’t lose Will. He couldn’t lose Will _before_ \- back when Will was no more than his best friend. The person he’d spent more of his life with than without. The person who knew so many of his secrets; who knew him best; who’d seen him at his best and worst. The person he cared about more than almost anything. Losing Will _then_ would have broken Mike right down the middle. But now? After everything?

Will senses the shift. His hands stop, and he leans forward to meet Mike’s gaze at an awkward angle. “What?”

Several moments of silence crawl by, and finally Mike opens his mouth. “Do you think... maybe...”

Will jostles his head with a knee, concern pinching his face at Mike’s uncharacteristic reluctance to speak.

He tries again. “Do you think we could maybe... I don’t know, look at colleges in the same state, or - or apply to some of the same... universities...” And he’s trailing off again because it sounds so stupid, out loud. His gesturing hands flop around like fish out of water, for a moment, and then they drop into his lap. He looks down, away from Will, and picks at a spot in the carpet.

Will’s hands go back to work. Carding through his hair. He’s worked out all the tangles, by now, and the motion is smooth, constant, repetitive. “You mean like,” he says, and pauses for a moment to push one hand up into Mike’s hair and give it a vigorous shake. Tossing waves and half-curls over Mike’s face. “Go to college together?”

Mike swipes the hair out of his eyes. “What are you even doing?”

“Messing up your hair.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Will tousles his hair once again for emphasis, and then goes back to brushing it with his fingers. Mike takes several deep breaths, lips clicking as they part to speak but coming up empty each time.

“Maybe there’s one that has both our majors,” he ventures at last. “I just. I mean, I was just thinking.” That damn heat is back, swelling right behind his nose and eyes, and he clenches his jaw to push it down. “I just started thinking and...” He can’t spit it out. Every time he goes to say _I don’t know what I’ll do without you,_ his throat clamps down over the words and he can’t breathe through them. He clears his throat. “Well. Yeah. Maybe we could -”

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

He turns again, so abruptly that his spine pops in two places. Will looks down at him, the soft multicolored glow of the string lights soaking into his hair and touching one side of his face.

“Yeah?”

Will shrugs. “There’s gotta be at least one college out there with an art major _and_... uh, have you even chosen a major yet?”

Mike’s arm twists back to whack ineffectively against Will’s upper arm. “I have a year left, leave me alone.” But then he grins. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” Will grins back, this time with a glimmer of that sweet shyness that he was known for as a kid. “Together, right?”

Mike knows immediately what he’s referencing. It was years ago, but the moment plays through his mind - _Hey, well, if we’re both going crazy, then we’ll go crazy together, right?_ His heart gives a funny little flutter-lurch behind his ribcage, and then starts beating hard. Not fast - just _hard_ , like it’s trying to bruise the inside of his chest.

“Right,” Mike confirms. “Together.”

* * *

 They’re getting bolder.

Or maybe she’s just better at noticing it, now. Better at paying attention.

Karen stares right through the pot she’s scrubbing. The sharp, clean scent of dishwasher soap rises around her with the steam, and all she can see is Will’s fork balanced clumsily in his left hand. His right arm was angled just slightly towards Mike, disappearing under the table.

They were holding hands. Right there, at dinner.

She had that dream again - the one she keeps having. About that day when Mike was four and he fell off the jungle gym. Her brain keeps serving it up again and again, tormenting her with the memory. And that’s the thing, it’s not a nightmare. She can’t just wake up and think, _oh, thank god it wasn’t real._ Because it was real. Mike really did fall, all those years ago when she should have been paying attention. He stepped right off the edge and that was it - sprained ankle, banged-up head, bruises all over. She remembers running in her heels to reach him, nearly crying with guilt. She remembers his chubby little cheeks, flushed and tear-streaked, as he looked up at her in pained bewilderment. Like he couldn’t believe what just happened.

And now Karen is standing in the kitchen in her socks, mindlessly scouring the pot she cooked dinner in, trying not to think about how quickly her son vanished into the basement. How Will went down first, glancing over his shoulder to see if Mike was following, and Mike didn’t even hesitate before closing the door behind him.

How is she supposed to just turn off her mother’s instincts? She can’t just watch her child wander off down a dark path and do nothing.

She can’t just stand by.

* * *

 Mike faces forward again, drained as if he just ran a mile, but in a good way. Relief loosens the knot in his gut and he leans back against the couch, sighing as Will repositions himself. He settles one leg on either side of Mike and scoots forward an inch or two, giving himself optimal access to Mike’s head and shoulders. Mike rolls his eyes when Will’s hands bury themselves into his hair again, but he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t really want Will to stop, anyway. The gentle, repetitive tugs send shivers running down the back of his neck.

After a few heartbeats of quiet, Mike speaks. “Where do you want to go?”

“Away,” is Will’s immediate answer. “I don’t know. Maybe a big city.”

Mike makes a face. “A big city?”

He laughs. “I dunno. Just somewhere different from here.”

Mike hums agreement. Then he hisses - a spark of static electricity popped between Will’s hands and his scalp, stinging slightly. Will presses both palms down over his head in apology, muttering, “Sorry, sorry. You okay?”

“Fine.”

It was nothing - just a spark. But that’s been happening a _lot_ lately, come to think of it. What is it with Will and being a magnet for static? Does he constantly go around shuffling wool socks on the carpet?

His attention is waylayed when Will’s hands slip from the crown of his head, down the back of his neck, and then to his shoulders. His palms press down, firm, like he’s testing the give. Mike is about to ask what he’s doing when Will’s fingers wrap around the muscles right at the junction of his neck and shoulders and clamp down. Then his hands move down an inch and pinch again, and Mike gives a little grimace. There’s a delicate, tart-tender ache settled into his muscles, accumulated over weeks and months of tension and worry, and the tendons give a little twinge of discomfort as Will starts pressing firm circles on either side of the base of his skull. Then Will grinds the heels of his hands into the flesh just below the collar of Mike’s shirt, and Mike’s groan ebbs into a sigh as his shoulders start to relax under the touch.

Why is Will so good at this? Mike didn’t realize how tightly strung he was until Will started wringing the tension from his muscles. He reclines against the couch, bracketed by Will’s legs, and closes his eyes. Will isn’t gentle about it - he digs his fingers and palms deep into the stiff muscles, making them ache in a way that almost feels good. He works at Mike’s neck, first, kneading the delicate tendons that extend down into the rest of his body. And then, when Mike’s head has lolled forward, skin hot with a blood-blush from the touch, Will moves on. To the tops of his shoulders, his upper back, rubbing and squeezing with those long artist’s fingers that Mike can’t help but admire. He layers slow, smooth strokes along Mike’s shoulders, pushing and kneading, and Mike can feel himself melting into a putty. Undivided attention from his boyfriend tends to do that, these days.

* * *

 Karen places the pot on the draining rack. Moving with that too-careful, too-precise kind of self control that only comes from nearly being _out_ of control. She’s made a decision - now what’s left is following through with it.

She stands in the kitchen for several long minutes, too deep in thought to even sit down, before she hears the TV click off. Ted gets up from his La-Z-Boy, and the familiar rhythm of his footsteps start to trudge up the stairs.

Pushing her limbs into action, she follows him.

* * *

 The thought rises quietly from the back of his mind, without warning. Like a bubble deep underwater, rising calmly and steadily towards the surface. _He really loves me, huh?_

It startles Mike so much that he lets his head fall back to look at Will upside-down. At this angle, he can see the exact shape of Will’s jaw and the plump curve of his lower lip. Will gives a self-satisfied grin, still kneading Mike’s shoulders.

“Hey,” is all Will says.

And Mike’s heart does that funny little flutter-lurch again that he can feel between his ribs, and this time his pulse _does_ pick up, and he can feel himself going red. He can feel the delicate, immediate heat rising like a mist to the tips of his cheeks and warming in his neck and ears, and he knows Will can see it because that smirk widens just a degree.

Mike almost says it. His mouth gets as far as forming the shapes _I lo-_ but then he catches the words just behind his teeth and swallows them down, and instead just whispers back, “Hey,” in one dry, half-cracked syllable. He’s not ready to say that yet - not quite. But -

_He loves me._

It’s half statement, half realization. Mike knew that before, of course - he knew that. He knew it since Will signed his letter ~~_Love_~~ _,_ _~~Sincerely,~~ __Love, Will._ And he knew it before then, really, in that half-conscious instinctual way. He knew it the way he knows how many steps there are in his house, even in the dark, or the way he knows how to pitch his voice to draw in the players in a campaign. He knew it the way he knew that he would have crumbled inside of himself if Will hadn’t come back from that cabin where they all but burned him alive. But he’s never considered it as a fact before, as something that can be stated aloud. _The sky is blue. Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. Will loves me._

He’s too full of fizzy sunlight to sit still, so he arches back and pushes up until he catches Will’s mouth at perhaps the most awkward angle known to man. He abandons that idea in about two seconds and crawls up onto the couch, tackling Will immediately in another kiss - a real one, this time, and Will laughs into it.

“Stop smiling,” he scolds, poking Mike in the ribs. “I can’t kiss you if you’re smiling.”

Mike just nuzzles his face into his boyfriend’s throat, breathing in his scent, and then kisses a trail up Will’s neck and over his jaw until he reaches his mouth again. He gently bowls Will over and shifts himself on top, and Will is laughing again by this point, squirming underneath him.

“You’re in a good mood all the sudden,” he comments, and Mike just hums and nips at the soft lobe of his ear. This draws a sharp little inhale from Will, who then slots his legs together with Mike’s and hooks one palm around the back of Mike’s head, into the waves that Will himself thoroughly disheveled.

Their lips work against each other, warm and willing, and Mike traces the shape of Will’s lower lip with the very tip of his tongue until Will gets impatient and licks into Mike’s mouth. Around them, the house settles. The basement has always been a receptacle for all those inner-workings-of-the-building sounds. Sleepovers past have always been set against a backdrop of footsteps above, water rushing through pipes, the _whoosh-bang_ of the heater kicking on, creaks and drafts and all the rest. Mike knows the sounds of the house as well as he knows his own heartbeat. So he instantly recognizes the sound of the kitchen sink shutting off, the _clunk_ of his father’s La-Z-Boy folding shut, and then two pairs of footsteps ascending the stairs. His parents are turning in for the night. His sisters both went upstairs already, too.

All clear.

* * *

 Karen climbs the stairs like one ascending to the gallows. Her right palm, sweat-damp and clammy, drags along the bannister. Her left hand tightens into a fist beside her, and then splays out. She can do this. She has to do this.

_It’s because of you,_ that voice pipes up calmly, coldly from the back of her mind.

She swallows it down and climbs the last few steps with leaden feet. Ted is sitting on the bed when she comes in, busy unbuttoning the sleeves of his work shirt. He glances up when she enters, but it’s not until she presses the door shut behind her that his face wrinkles up in confusion.

“Uh-oh,” he says, his tone only half-joking as she sits gingerly a few feet away from him. “What’d I do now?”

She can feel her voice going all wobbly before she even speaks, and she hesitates for several long moments. Once she tells him she won’t be able to take it back. Maybe Joyce was right. Maybe she should keep her mouth shut. But... no, she decided. She decided already. This is her fault. She can fix this - she’s gonna fix this. She has to. But she can’t do it alone.

“Ted, it’s...” she begins, and the waterworks start up at once. She clasps her hands in her lap, avoiding his eyes until finally she looks up and says, “It’s about our son.”

* * *

 He could never admit it aloud, but Mike loves moments like these. When they really get going and the momentum carries them effortlessly, without having to think or hesitate or question his next move. They’re tangled up on the couch now, all hard breaths and mouths sliding together and Will’s tongue stroking fervently against Mike’s, hot and so smooth. Mike’s hands shoved up under Will’s shirt; Will’s hands stroking down his neck, his arms, fisting against the front of his sweater. Mike isn’t sure if he’s the one that starts it, or if it was Will, but one thrust turns into two and just like that they’ve found a rhythm, sinuous and pulsing. Mike’s hips grinding Will’s down into the cushion and Will’s tilting up to meet him. There’s no denying how hard they both are - Mike can feel it through the stiff layers of denim, and he chases it without thinking. Swiveling his hips down in a messy, unfocused pulse. They’re still relatively unpracticed, and every few seconds they either miss a beat or jar their hips together on accident. But he doesn’t care. Instinct has him bearing down with a groan, burying his mouth against Will’s as they writhe against each other.

And it’s not enough. He realizes that as frustration mounts in his chest, even as Will nips playfully at his tongue. That shower spoiled him. Now that he’s felt Will pressed up against him, head-to-toe with nothing between them but soap lather, dry-humping through these thick layers of fabric can’t hold a candle. He just wants more - he wants to be closer, to feel _more_. He wants the body heat of skin on skin and he wants - god. A fresh tingle of blood-blush rises to his skin. He wants Will’s hands on him again. They haven’t touched like that since the shower, and suddenly it feels like an eternity ago.

First order of business: he wants this damn shirt _off._

Mike rears up to yank the thing over his head. He flings it aside and tries not to balk as  Will’s eyes sweep over him, drinking in Mike’s bare torso as if it’s anything worth looking at. Will’s fingers come up to dance over the smattering of freckles that trail down his shoulders, but Mike is already crawling over him again.

It’s weird. Usually Will is the eager one, fidgeting impatiently until they can get a moment alone, hands burrowing under Mike’s shirt, teeth snapping at his lower lip. But now Mike finds himself taking the lead, riding that wave of inexplicable, stomach-swooping happiness. That warmth turns quickly to heat as Will responds, and it sparkles like soda in his veins, at his cheeks and the tips of his ears and the delicate skin of his wrists. The arousal seems to sink roots deep into his belly, pulling taut as Mike cages Will in with his limbs and listens to his boyfriend breathe out in hard little puffs of air against his cheek.

With the tart-sweet tension singing through his entire body, like the plucked string of a guitar, Mike noses his way under Will’s jaw. He finds the soft spot just under his ear, and first only presses his lips there, and then flicks out a tip of tongue. Tasting the warm, musky-fresh essence of his skin. From here, at that sensitive hollow of skin and chestnut hair and the collar of Will’s shirt, Will’s scent is all around him. Light, clean, earthy, and with that dark-sweet twist of something almost like fennel or liquorish. Mike inhales until he’s on the teetering edge of dizziness, and then nips at that patch of skin - Will’s body bows underneath him, the warm solidness of his body pressing up against Mike, and Mike swipes his tongue over the spot again. But he knows better than to bite down any harder. Not this far up, above the collar. He pulls back and Will makes a breathy noise that’s dangerously close to a whine of disappointment, but then Mike’s lips are dragging down the column of Will’s throat with a whisper of wetness, and his mouth lands at the ticklish point between neck and shoulder - just where Will was rubbing the tension out of Mike, minutes before - and there he latches on. Teeth closing over the flesh until Will makes a clipped noise of pain, and then giving a hard pull of suction until that noise stutters into a needy groan and Will’s hips pulse up against Mike’s, once, twice, while Mike sucks hard at the base of his neck. When he pulls away the skin is an angry red. It’ll darken to a bruise by the time they leave the basement.

A noise rises in Will’s throat, making it halfway out of his mouth, but whatever he was going to say is cut short as Mike dives again. To the other side of his neck, this time, licking and grazing his teeth over the familiar shape of Will’s throat until he bites down again, and Will just throws his head to the side and sighs. Mike feels gooseflesh light up under his tongue. It could be his imagination, but he thinks, through the lids of his closed eyes, that he sees glow of the string lights brighten and fluctuate with Will’s gasps. Everything is back to normal when he draws back and opens his eyes. He chalks it up to his imagination, but tucks it away in the back of his mind. He doesn’t have time to think about it right now.

He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. His body is flying down that slope of momentum, and he can only watch. He’s impatient, almost frenzied, not thinking straight - his mind has gone at once foggy and hyper-aware, and he can feel every tiny thread and crease in his pants. And oh, by the way, he wants _those_ off too. He’s painfully hard inside them, stuck halfway between wanting to shove them off so they stop chafing and wanting to buck down against Will again just to get _any_ sort of friction. The shirt. Will is still wearing his shirt. And that just won’t do.

Mike’s hands start fumbling over buttons, and Will is panting, “Here, I’ll -” and then before Mike quite knows what happened he’s wrestling Will’s shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, and Will has somehow managed to pop the button of Mike’s jeans and is tugging at the zipper. There’s a moment of jostling and bumping and static popping between them as they struggle out of the rest of their clothes. Will winds up catching Mike square in the nose with a knee and they both have to stop for a moment to laugh and de-tangle themselves. Then Mike has to sit up onto his knees to get his pants off, one leg at a time, and Will peels his undershirt from his torso with lithe grace and kicks his own jeans down his legs and onto the floor, and then all at once they’re both completely bare. Vulnerable, exposed, and it’s what Mike wanted in the first place but he finds himself unable to move for a moment. He just hovers over Will, arousal and echoes of pleasure swirling together like a thunderstorm inside him, skin prickling with a shiver in the cool air of the basement.

Their eyes lock, Will’s chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath, and for a moment that’s all Mike can do. He just stares down at the creature below him - this powerful, fiery, handsome, adorable, brilliant person who eagerly, _impossibly_ offered himself up to Mike, as if Mike could possibly be worthy. Mike takes in the soft fringe of hair that frames his face, all messied up from their exertions. The green-brown eyes, like - like... Mike has about a hundred ways to describe Will’s eyes, and none of them ever seem quite right. He made a list, actually. Coffee and jade; bark and pine; chocolate and seaglass. Right now Will’s pupils are blown wide, half from the dim light and half from arousal. Mike’s eyes trail down. Over the ripening hickeys, down the slim torso, over the slightest ripple of ribs and the dip of his belly, flat from lying on his back. And for the second time ever, Mike forces his gaze lower, almost sheepish as he takes in the entirety of Will’s form. His legs are stronger than Mike’s, toned from years in track, and his skin is just half a shade darker. Mike has always been pale, with a tendency to sunburn; Will manages to hold on to a whisper of tan in the warmer months. But the skin of Will’s thighs and belly is as pale as Mike’s, untouched by sun, and his dick is a splash of color right at the center of his body. Angry red, standing in a nest of deep brown curls.

When Mike looks back up Will is already watching him, emotions clashing in his eyes. His head gives a nervous little dip, and then he glances back up at Mike through his lashes as if awaiting approval.

Mike just shakes his head, overwhelmed and awe-struck that he’s even here. That this is even happening.

“God, you’re amazing,” is what falls out of his mouth, and he didn’t mean to say that - never consciously planned the words before he spoke them - but once he starts he doesn’t want to stop. It’s like he’s smashed right through some icy film of hesitance that was holding him in check before, and now that it’s gone the floodgates have opened. “You’re perfect, look at you -”

He’s interspersing his words with kisses, peppering them over Will’s lips and then his nose and cheeks and back to his lips.

“- I can’t fucking believe you’re _mine_.”

Will’s head has twisted to the side, as if trying to hide his flushed face, but he’s smiling - a small, hesitant smile that Mike hasn’t seen on Will in a long time.

“Did you think about this?”

Mike keeps talking, thoughts flowing right out of his mouth without filter, and on an impulse he reaches down to palm the stove-hot flesh of Will’s dick. Will bucks up into the touch with a small toss of his hips, like the motion was completely unintentional, and Mike’s voice comes out unsteady and frayed.

“Before? Did you imagine it?”

He doesn’t know why, but he has to know. He bends his wrist nearly in half to reach Will, filling his palm with the soft tip. When he pulls down, over the shaft, he can feel the rapid drumbeat of Will’s pulse through the soft skin. Will’s scent has shifted, sharpened into something darker, something more organic than the manmade smell of soap and cologne - he smells like _want_ , and it sends a hot little thrill of energy through Mike’s belly. He can _smell_ how much Will wants him, and just that - the simple fact of being wanted - makes his thoughts unravel into a messy cacophony of sensation.

At last, Will nods. Stiltedly, like it was hard to drag the answer out of himself. “Yeah,” he breathes. His eyes squeeze shut and his head tilts back, brows drawing together in a little frown of concentration as Mike strokes him. “I - yeah.” And then his eyes are opening and he’s looking right at Mike, face open and questioning. “Did you?”

Mike licks his lips. His mind is too hazy to come up with anything but the truth. He nods, and he swears he hears Will’s breath catch. “Yeah,” he admits in a hoarse whisper. And then, rushing ahead before the words evaporate - “I didn’t - I wouldn’t let myself. For a long time.”

Will nods, all at once looking far more serious and understanding than is entirely befitting of their situation. Mike breathes out shakily and makes himself explain, because he wants Will to know - for the first time, ever, he wants somebody to know about this. But no - not just _somebody_. Will. Only Will.

“I usually just tried to ignore it, but -”

Mike goes quiet for too long and Will prompts, “What?”

He can’t look Will in the eye anymore. He looks down instead, pretending to be too intent on his efforts to make eye contact. “When we’d fight over something,” he blurts. Face burning. Heart pounding away at his ribs, pulse throbbing in his temples and fingertips and dick. “Like. When we’d wrestle for the remote, or. Whatever. I’d imagine this.”

It was both the bane of Mike’s existence and the highlight of his day, back before the letter. He would always tell himself that it was all in good fun - that they were just giving each other a hard time, like guy friends do. But deep down, acknowledged only during his most sleepless late nights, he knew perfectly well that he just couldn’t resist that amount of contact. Fingers wrapped around wrists, legs rubbing, the movement, the warmth. Will’s scent. Hands grasping, torsos bucking, mouths giving little gasps as they tried to throw each other off. It was _entirely_ too much like something far less G-rated, and Mike always refused to admit it even to himself.

“I wanted you before I even knew that I did.”

His mouth seals shut, courage spent, but it’s enough to make Will do that little disbelieving smile again. His eyes have fluttered half-closed, his lips parted just slightly as he listens. Now his jaw drops a little further with a fervent inhale, and he pushes up into Mike’s hand as he answers.

“I - _ah_ \- wanted you too.” And then as Mike gives another, harder stroke he’s gasping out, “ _Hah_ \- Mike -” and Mike is suddenly glad that Will isn’t touching him, because if he was Mike probably would have finished then and there.

But they’re going to have to stop soon. Mike doesn’t exactly have a secret stash of lube in the basement -

_Note to self: put a secret stash of lube in the basement._

\- and the movement of his hand is going to start to chafe soon, if it hasn’t already. His hand slows. Will gives another rough little noise in the back of his throat, like he’s complaining, and Mike murmurs, “The lube’s upstairs. You think we should get...?”

Will’s head turns to peer towards the staircase. “From your room?”

“No, from China.”

Will gives a cursory kick, jostling Mike with no real venom. He sighs. “I guess one of us has to go up there.”

They look at each other, both pulling the same face. Neither one willing to put clothes back on and casually saunter up into the house with wild hair, swollen lips, and smelling like sex. But then, as Will’s eyes flicker down over Mike’s figure and his tongue slips along his lips to wet them, that idea comes creeping back into Mike’s head.

He moves his hand from Will’s dick to his ribs, and he can feel them moving under his skin as Will sighs in frustration. Mike is thinking. His first thought was to spit into his palm, but spit doesn’t last very long as a lubricant - at least, not just on a hand. And that’s what did it. That image came flashing through his mind again, the same image that had him nearly suffocating at the dinner table. But Mike can’t ask for that. He’d die of embarrassment and keel over right there before he could get the words out. But maybe - maybe he doesn’t have to ask. Maybe he could offer, instead.

“Can I...” he says, and hesitates. Then he tells himself not to be a pussy and spits it out. “Is it okay if I use my mouth on you?”

Will gapes. Like he’s shocked Mike would even suggest it. _Shit,_ Mike thinks, and opens his mouth to apologize because clearly that was out of line, but -

Will breathes, “You want to?”

He nods, once, decisively. Will’s breath goes a little ragged and he nods back, eyes huge.

“Okay - yeah, that’s... how should I...?”

They fumble around, getting positioned, guiding each other. Mike ends up kneeling in front of the couch, with Will sitting at the very edge of the cushion, half-reclined back on his elbows. Mike pushes Will’s knees apart and crawls up between them, the old carpet of the basement itching and abrasive against his knees.

Okay. Here we go. He can do this. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, and his stomach is churning with nerves now that he’s here, but -

God, what the fuck is he doing?

_Okay,_ he thinks again. _Not that complicated. Just do it._

His hand closes around the base of Will’s shaft. The tip is shining with precum already, and that smell that’s so purely and uniquely _Will_ and _want_ is most concentrated here. Before he can chicken out, Mike dives forward and brings his mouth down over the tip. He closes his lips around it and gives an experimental swipe with his tongue, mainly from curiosity. As soon as the strange, almost-saltiness of it touches his tongue, Will’s hips stutter and he gives a soft, “ _Ah -”_ which is cut off abruptly, as if he shoved a hand over his own mouth. Mike lifts his eyes, meeting Will’s gaze, and that seems to be Will’s undoing. Will moans through his fingers, and triumph bursts through Mike’s nerves.

This feels filthy, somehow - but not at all how he expected. Not _unclean._ He expected to be half-mortified, but maybe he’s just too focused on his task to feel any of that. Maybe he will later. But right now, Will is trembling, and Mike pulls his lips over the velvety tip and sticks his tongue out to lick from base to top. His whole body primed, attuned to the hard push of Will’s breaths, to the way he’s shaking just slightly under Mike’s hands, the little sounds that are rising with increasing frequency from his lips. The coarse curls of hair around the base brush Mike’s nose, and he breathes in the scent with his eyes closed. He tries again, summoning up a mouthful of saliva before running his tongue from bottom to top, and then parting his lips wide to slide his mouth down onto Will as far as he can go - and then a little farther, just to prove himself that he can. He takes his time. Familiarizing himself with the feel of it, the weight of Will on his tongue, the taste of skin and something else, something warm and half-familiar. Then he remembers that he’s supposed to be moving and he pulls back to the tip. (That’s his favorite part, he decides somewhere in the murky depths of his mind, because the skin there is softest - like the tender cap of a mushroom.) He bobs down, and up again, feeling out a clumsy pattern. Will whispers a few times - “fuck,” and “Mike,” and little inaudible murmurs that send an ache wobbling through Mike’s gut and straight to his own dick.

It doesn’t take long for Will to wind his hands into Mike’s hair. Mike can’t suppress the resulting shiver. His whole body is so hot and hypersensitive that the tug at the roots of his hair seems to waterfall through the rest of him. Will starts to guide him. Pressing softly until he sinks nearly to the very base, concentrating hard to relax the back of his throat to keep the gag reflex from triggering. Then Will pulls him back, gently, by the hair, and pushes him down again. Mike allows the exchange of power without complaint. He takes himself in one hand, giving an unintentional little moan at the long-awaited touch, while the other grips Will’s hip. Bracing himself as Will starts the pull-and-push rhythm, slowly at first, being careful not to force Mike’s head too far down, rolling his hips in sync. Mike, for his part, pushes through his inexperience and makes every attempt to do what seems right. He tries to hollow out his cheeks at the right times, to keep his teeth out of the way, to drag his tongue along the underside of the impossibly hot, solid flesh. It’s a challenge, and one he’s determined to rise to. However, it’s getting increasingly difficult. Both of their movements are growing erratic, Will’s breath going ragged and his pulse - which _thrums_ away under Mike’s tongue - beginning to jackhammer. Mike keeps barking his knuckles against the front of the couch as he pumps himself, and he’s really missing that lube about now, but it’s enough - he can feel himself going limp-tense, strength draining out of his limbs and his abdomen clenching down with every throb of pleasure that goes through him.

Will’s grip on his hair turns painful, but all Mike can feel is the tension coiling at the base of his spine. His jaw aches, and he’s panting through his nose, saliva dripping over his bottom lip as Will gives a shallow thrust, and then another. The tip of his dick brushes accidentally against the soft tissues at the back of Mike’s throat, making him sputter.

The liquid fills his mouth before he realizes what’s happening, and he manages to swallow before much of it runs over his lips. It’s not salty, like everyone says. At least, not like table salt. Vaguely sour, but without any bite. Warm. Strange, but not unpleasant.

Will’s hands slip from his hair and Mike sits back on his heels, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath. His chin is wet with cooling saliva and... and, well, other things, and he swipes a wrist across his mouth to wipe it away.

“Fuck,” is what Will says first. He sits up - at some point he must have fallen from his elbows to his back - and scans over Mike with glittering eyes. His gaze falls on the hard-on that still hasn’t been resolved, and he waves a hand.

“Here - here, let me -”

He pulls Mike up, onto his lap, and Mike is all too willing to lean back against Will’s chest and groan as Will spits into a palm and reaches around to grip him. Will repays him for the hickeys, sinking his teeth into Mike’s neck as Mike twitches and bucks his way towards completion. He’s so close that Will’s spit has barely started to go tacky before Mike is shuddering, muffling a too-loud moan behind a hand, and then it’s silent except for their labored breaths and the settling house.

Minutes pass, and Will drags an old, threadbare blanket down from the back of the couch to cover themselves with as they flop onto the cushions. Mike’s limbs feel like jelly, and he absolutely, positively needs to hide a bottle of lube down here somewhere, because he’ll definitely be feeling that later. But for now he couldn’t feel regret if he tried.

“Yeah,” he says, dreamily, and noses at Will’s cheek. They’re side-by-side, pressed together to avoid Mike falling off the edge of the narrow couch, sharing the warmth of the blanket. “You’re not escaping in college.”

Will gives a bark of laughter, and then hooks one leg over Mike’s with a sigh. “I suppose I could keep you around for a while.”

Mike hums agreement. “Hmm. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He feels Will shift under the blanket, and when he opens his eyes he finds one pinky extended right in front of his nose. “Promise?”

His right hand maneuvers free of the blanket and he hooks his pinky into Will’s.

“Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-dun! XD  
> Whoever's still left, at the end of that MONSTER of a chapter, please do let me know what you think!


	9. The Storm: Part 1

All is not well at the Wheeler abode.

Mike’s parents had another fight. A big one. They haven’t said a word about it, but the atmosphere at breakfast yesterday was a dead giveaway. Ted and Karen were silent, stiff, with matching dark bags under their eyes. They kept sending each other quick, clearly uncomfortable glances throughout the whole meal, prompting Mike and Will to escape the Wheeler house as quickly as they could. It’s been nearly twenty four hours, and Mike has yet to return home - he knows better than to get anywhere near _that_ shitfest. He’ll just shower at the Byers’ today.

They emerge from Will’s room just past 8:00am - not because Mike wanted to get up so early, but because Will woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, and, well, that was that. When Will can’t sleep, Mike can’t sleep. Them’s the rules. He was shaken awake at 7:52am, opening bleary eyes to his boyfriend saying, “Wake up, dork, I had a really weird dream about lizards.”

It took another twenty minutes for Will to drag Mike upright - mostly because it’s become a game, at this point, to be as stubborn and difficult a possible, always burrowing back under the sheets every time Will thinks he’s won. Will’s checkmate tactic is usually to leap directly on top of Mike and bounce on him, sing-songing obnoxiously until Mike gives in with a cry of, “I’m uuuuup!”

And, you know, he misses it. On days when he sleeps alone, at home, he misses Will. They spend enough nights curled up together, spine-to-stomach, listening to each other breathe, that Mike’s twin bed is starting to feel big and cold and empty on the nights they’re apart.

_You’ve got it bad,_ that voice remarks calmly as they emerge from Will’s room. That same voice that, two days ago, very nearly whispered, _I love you._

Will’s head tilts, and he sniffs. “Mm.”

Mike yawns. “Hm?”

“Coffee.”

“Yay.”

He’s right; it does smell like coffee. And eggs. That’s unusual. Joyce is the self-proclaimed worst egg cook in town, and Jonathan isn’t usually up this early on his free days. When they round the corner, Chester is perched hopefully on his haunches near the legs of one Jim Hopper, tail swishing back and forth in anticipation of scraps. Hop stands in front of the stove, poking at a frying pan full of eggs. Joyce, at the kitchen table, has on threadbare plaid pajama pants and a huge tee shirt that... actually, come to think of it, Mike doesn’t think that’s _her_ shirt. Not that he’s super familiar with Joyce Byers’ wardrobe, but it doesn’t look all that familiar. Her hair is wild, but her eyes are bright. She looks up when they come in, and then immediately looks down again, hiding her face behind a long sip of coffee.

Will’s eyes slide back and forth between his mother and the police chief. A smirk begins to twist up one corner of his mouth. “Morning.”

Hop turns, seeming only mildly surprised to find Mike standing beside Will, and lifts the spatula in greeting. “Morning,” he echoes, and goes back to jabbing at the eggs.

Mike leans on the counter, peering hopefully at the stove in case there just so happen to be four eggs sizzling. There are only two. Then Hop sees him looking and wordlessly cracks two more into the pan. Will, meanwhile, is staring intensely at his mother, clearly attempting some form of mother-son-telepathic communication. She insists on examining a miniscule ridge on the side of the table, running her thumbnail along the wood. Mike nudges Will in a _knock it off_ gesture, and he relents with a small shake of his head.

“‘S over easy okay?” Hop asks, speaking to the room in general, and receives three _yeah_ s back.

It’s peaceful, Mike reflects. Morning sunlight, watery and golden, falling across the table and wall. Birds hopping around singing _good morning_ songs in the Byers’ backyard. Joyce getting up to peer over Hop’s shoulder, setting an affectionate hand on his arm as she checks the eggs. Will making coffee at Mike’s side, gently pushing Chester away when he sticks his snout up onto the counter. It’s so different from yesterday. Not for the first time, Mike dreads going home. He accepts the cup Will hands to him and shakes the thought out of his mind. He doesn’t have to deal with that just yet.

Jonathan’s bedroom door opens with a characteristic squeak of hinges a moment later. Jonathan slumps around the corner, shadows under his eyes and a pillow line on his cheek - and a second figure enters the kitchen behind him. Nancy, in sleep shorts and an old pink tank top, her brown waves flat on one side of her head.

For a moment, no one says anything. Mike looks at Nancy, who looks at Hop, who looks at Joyce, who looks at Jonathan, who looks at Will. Everyone seems to be doing the math. One house; three bedrooms; six people. Of course, Mike and Will have an alibi. They have sleepovers in Will’s room all the time. They even rolled out the sleeping bag beside the bed, just in case. _They’re_ just having a sleepover during summer vacation, like always. But the others?

Oh, Mike is gonna tease Nancy about this for _weeks._

The moment ends, and Hop simply says, “Guess I’ll start another pot of coffee.”

As Mike fixes his sister with a gleefully accusatory stare, Will wanders to the radio on the counter and flicks it on. He twirls he dial until he finds music, as if to assuage the awkward silence, and it seems to work. The tension in the room fades a bit as Joyce starts laying strips of bacon alongside the eggs and Nancy greets Hop with a nod.

_“_ _It's just another manic Monday,”_ the Bangles proclaim loudly from the radio, and Will turns it down a notch or two. _“I wish it was Sunday. 'Cause that's my fun day - my I don't have to run day. It's just another manic Monday.”_

It’s not Monday; it’s Thursday, the air close and muggy already despite being just over a week into June. The day tastes like rain already, though the sky is bright and cloudless. They’ve been forecasting a storm since Tuesday.

“Thought you were at Dustin’s.” Mike’s sister has appeared at his elbow, and she quirks her lips at him haughtily, as if he didn’t grow an inch taller than her over the past two years.

“Thought you were home,” he shoots back, and she just lifts her eyebrows.

“Touché.” Then she straightens, extending one hand to try to swipe a piece of bacon straight out of the pan. “I’m avoiding home for now, anyway. Ow.” She scoops her prize onto a napkin and flutters her burnt fingertips. “Mom and Dad are...” Her face twists as she trails off, and Mike laughs.

“Yeah, I know. What do you figure it is this time?”

Nancy shrugs, with an expression that says, _hell if I care,_ and blows on her pilfered bacon before biting into it.

They sit down to breakfast together, six of them squeezing in at the kitchen table. The music on the radio is upbeat, as if the DJ knows it’s a bright and promising summer day with no school or homework to ruin it. Chester settles down at Joyce’s feet and sticks his cold nose onto people’s legs every few seconds, hoping some morsel will fall down under the table. Hop tells Joyce about a book series that El has been pestering him to read. Nancy and Jonathan lean together comfortably, no doubt happy to be in the same state for once. Mike nudges Will’s foot with his own under the table, and Will steals a bite of egg from Mike’s plate with a grin.

* * *

 The Party is on their way to the Byers’. Max just called on the radio to let them know. Everyone’s gonna go help Dustin with some science project (even though _“It’s summer vacation, Dustin! We don’t even have a science_ class _!”_ ). Well, everyone except for Will and El, who have opted to stay behind and be hermits his time. Mike is a tad bummed, to be perfectly honest - he was looking forward to having the whole Party together. But he reminds himself to be glad for them; Will’s been saying that he barely gets to hang out with El anymore because of how busy they both are, and they are each _other’s_ best friends, too, not just Mike’s.

But right at this very moment, the Party hasn’t even arrived yet, and Will is pulling Mike into the backyard.

“What surprise?” Mike says, and Will rolls his eyes.

“Yes, because I can _tell_ you what the surprise is. That’s how surprises work.”

“Do I get a hint?”

“Your hint is, shut up and stand here.”

Will maneuvers Mike around the corner of the shed, hiding them from sight of the house, and Mike snaps off an exaggerated salute. “Sir, yes sir.”

Will laughs at him as he retreats, disappearing around the corner with a shake of his head. “Oh, my god, shut _up_. You’re such a dork.” Mike hears the old shed door open, slowly squeak closed, and then open again. Will reappears, clearly carrying something behind his back.

“Weasel,” Mike guesses, grinning.

Will tuts. “Aw, you guessed it.” He plants himself a few feet away, an odd nervousness rising in his expression as he nods to Mike’s hands. “Okay, close your eyes. And hold out your hands.”

Mike does. He’s wary, though. Half of him is expecting something sweet, like a drawing or something. The other half is suspicious. He remembers all too well being handed various worms and toads over the years because seven-year-old Mike _hated_ wriggly, crawly things, and seven-year-old Will took advantage of this regularly. But the object that’s pressed into his hands is hard plastic, rectangular, and about the size of his palm.

“Okay,” Will says, and his voice is hitched up just a degree higher than usual. “Open.”

It’s a cassette tape, snug and glossy in its clear plastic case. Mike turns it over in his hands, bemused, but there’s no label. He looks to Will for clues - only to find his boyfriend chewing on a nail, brows drawn together, clearly waiting for a reaction.

“Oh -” Will says, abruptly, “I was going to decorate it, but I -” His eyes flicker down with a shrug, that nervousness making his movements stiff. “I wanted to give it to you now. I dunno. I just didn’t feel like I should wait, you know? Maybe that’s stupid. I’ll - I’ll make a cover later, but uh...”

Will reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of cardstock, cut to size. It’s covered in song titles, carefully numbered in Will’s blocky handwriting, and that’s when Mike realizes what he’s holding. It’s not just a tape, it’s a _mixtape_. Something Will must have spent hours on. Something he put together specifically for Mike. And Mike does not blush - because he really, really should be past that by now - but he does smile, the expression sudden and unbidden, and mutters, “Aw. Wow, thanks, I...”

He tilts open the case so Will can slide the card into place, and then he scans through the song list.

“Oh, you put this one on just to fuck with me,” he laughs, jabbing a finger at _Secret Lovers_ by Atlantic Starr, and Will gives that same evil chuckle he’s had since he was five.

“I did, yes.” Then he sobers. “But, uh...” He traces a fingertip over the list, seeming to fish for the right words. “The rest of them... I guess, mostly they remind me of you. Or us.”

There’s Queen. Bowie, of course. Pseudo Echo. Mike huffs out a laugh when he sees _Kyrie_ by Mr. Mister.

“You know, I’m always going to associate that song with your letter,” he says quietly, pointing to the title. Will quirks his head at him and Mike goes on, “There was this car driving past when I was reading it -”

“Playing _Kyrie,_ ” Will cuts in, eyes wide. “With the windows rolled down.”

Mike nods, taken aback. “Uh - yeah.”

“I rode right past that car. On my bike. I came to talk to you but you weren’t home, and -” He gives a disbelieving little scoff. “We must’ve just missed each other.”

“You came to talk to me?”

Will half-shrugs, one shoulder tilting up higher than the other one, and then lets his arms fall in a kind of helpless gesture. “I kind of panicked.”

“That’s fair.” Another laugh. “Me too.”

Mike finds himself almost surprised at how... well, _romantic_ a lot of the songs are. _The Power of Love_ by Huey Lewis. _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ by Queen. _Need You Tonight_ by INXS. _Sweet Emotion_ by Aerosmith. _You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away_ by The Beatles - he snorts at that one. And then he half-laughs again at _Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’_ by Journey. _Don’t Go_ by Pseudo Echo. _Blackbird_ by The Beatles. _Modern Love_ by David Bowie. There are twenty two songs total, listed under _Side A_ and _Side B_ , and not _all_ of them are sappy like that. But most of them are. And Mike finds himself getting stupidly, needlessly flustered.

The thing is, he and Will aren’t usually very upfront with that mushy, lovey-dovey romance stuff. It’s like they haven’t quite figured out how to push past that ingrained barrier that says, _stop here - that’s not allowed._ They’re still a little awkward and unsure, often adding a good-natured insult or a playful shove to water down anything too sweet or sentimental. Like they’re still expecting the other shoe to drop. Like they’re still just waiting for the universe to exact its retribution upon them for what they’ve done - what they’re _doing_. Always a little afraid that the next kiss, the next gentle word will trigger some cosmic switch, and everything will come crashing down. But now, as Mike cups the gift in his palms, he feels almost hopeful. That weight of worry that’s been on his shoulders lifts - just a little. Not entirely. But for the first time in a while, he leans easily into his boyfriend’s space and kisses him with no underlying anxiety. No fear. No expectation that someone is about to come bursting in and take this good thing away from him.

The powdery-minty taste of toothpaste still lingers in Will’s mouth, and Mike runs the tip of his tongue along the glossy edge of Will’s incisors as he melts in closer. Mike’s hand is pinned between them, still holding the tape, and the hard plastic corners dig into his chest as Will leans against him. He doesn’t care. And, right then, he realizes something strange. He’s happy. That weird, unbearable feeling that’s _actually_ happy. He can feel it like he can feel the sunlight, already stove-hot on his skin though it’s still morning. Like the thickly humid air, which seems to lay physical hands on the back of Mike’s neck and the sides of his face, the heat carrying tantalizing whiffs of the incoming rain.

When he pulls away it’s only by an inch, and he pops in again to kiss the tip of Will’s nose, and then his forehead, and then Will is laughing and trying to squirm away so of course Mike has to pin him in place and do it all over again.

“ _Michael_ ,” Will scolds, finally freeing himself. But he doesn’t go far. He stays just within arm’s reach, scrubbing at his face with the back of a wrist in mock-disgust, smiling. “What’s wrong with you today? You knock a screw loose or something?”

Mike just shakes his head with a grin. And then, because he’s feeling just positive enough to actually say it - “We’re gonna be okay, you know?”

Will’s exasperated smile relaxes into something calmer. More serious. “Yeah.” And maybe it’s Mike’s imagination, but something like worry glimmers in his eyes, like a flicker of light deep underwater.

Mike’s brows sink in a frown of concern. “What?”

“Just a feeling.” Will looks down, chews on his bottom lip, releases it, and then looks up again. “I don’t know. Nothing.” His expression smooths, and the smile reappears. “Just worried. And, uh, terrified? We’re _seniors_. College is in a year. Do you know how much we have to do in the next twelve mon-”

Mike’s hand smothers the end of Will’s sentence, and Mike whispers, “Shhh, summer vacation time. No talking about school until September.”

Will retaliates by licking a long, hot stripe down Mike’s palm and across his wrist, and Mike wipes his hand on Will’s arm with a groan. But the shadow in Will’s eyes is gone, and as they walk back to the house Mike tucks the mixtape safely away in his pocket.

* * *

 “Be back later!” Mike hollers over his shoulder as he rides away, a tad behind the rest of the Party.

Well, the rest of the Party minus Will and El.

“Bye!” Will yells back, and at his side, El waves.

By some unspoken agreement, they wait until the Party rounds the bend before turning for the backyard.

“Okay,” El says, all business. “Tell me.”

Will sighs. He didn’t tell her much over the phone, two days ago. Just that he needed to talk to her - alone, in person. And if that didn’t tip her off that something was up before, Will’s anxiousness certainly is now. He’s awkward and jittery as he guides her to the shed and points her inside. She holds off long enough for Will to close the door behind them before turning and saying, “Will. What is it?” Her eyebrows climb her forehead. “Spill.”

Will looks down at his hands. He’s not good at words. His plan had been to just _show_ her, without having to build up to it with an explanation, but he can tell that won’t be happening. He feels not a twinge of energy in his gut - not even the weakest current. He thought he was getting better at summoning it, but now apparently his biological generators have stage fright.

So, words it is.

He pushes one hand through his hair, raking it back from his forehead, puffs out his cheeks with an exhale, and sits heavily on the makeshift bench. El sits beside him, poised as a panther in her tattered darkwash jeans and -

“ _Hey_ ,” Will cries, and El frowns.

“What?”

“That looks _so_ familiar.”

El looks down at the _Labyrinth_ tee shirt that Will has been looking for since April. She holds out for about three seconds before she cracks, a giggle wobbling in her voice as she says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m gonna need that back, you know.”

“Need what back?”

He shoves her, and she shoves back harder. When the chuckle fades from Will’s lips, he speaks to the ground in front of them. Spitting up the words before they evaporate again. “I can do things.” He feels her look at him, but he doesn’t look back. After a moment of silence, he reiterates: “I mean, I can - _do_ things.”

It sounds so unbelievably stupid now that it’s out of his mouth, but El doesn’t laugh at him. She just nods, once, the motion a bob in the corner of Will’s field of vision. “What things?” she asks simply, and he breathes in deeply.

“Electricity. Anything to do with electricity. I can -”

“It _was_ you!” She’s on her feet, aiming a triumphant finger at him, and Will almost flinches.

“... what?”

She’s pacing, ponytail of curls flicking behind her with every turn. “I’ve been sensing that for _months._ I knew it was you, it had to be -”

“Wait, wait. You’ve been sensing it? What do you mean?”

“Yeah.” She stops. “I tried to tell you at prom, remember? At first I thought maybe it was something...” She draws in a little breath, and they understand one another without having to speak the words. “Else. But it wasn’t that. It didn’t feel like the Upside Down.”

“Are you sure?”

El’s energy lulls at Will’s tone of voice, and her face pinches. “Sure what?”

He can tell his voice is going to come out sharp and reedy before he even speaks, and he pushes through the tightness in his throat. “Are you sure it’s not something from the Upside Down?”

She nods. “Yes. I can tell it’s you, it f-”

“But what if I _am_ that?” he bursts out.

It’s been haunting him for days. At first, when he discovered this... this _energy,_ this ability, he was just focused on figuring out what it was. How to control it. But ever since two days ago, when he finally felt like he had some measure of control over it, a new worry has been percolating through the back of his mind. He has so many marks of the Upside Down on him - physically and otherwise. Scars. What if this power is just another extension of that place, slowly growing in him?

The plank of wood shifts underneath him as El sits down again, and her hand braces itself against his knee. “You’re not.” She squeezes. “It’s not.”

“But are you sure?”

“Yes.” He lifts his head, meeting her eyes for the first time since he sat down, and she looks back unblinkingly as she says, “It doesn’t feel like that. Things from that place, they have a unique... wavelength, almost? It’s distinct. It’s like they glow, but in reverse. Does that make sense?”

“No.” They laugh. “But yeah, kinda. And I don’t... I don’t feel like that?”

She shakes her head. “No. You just feel like you. Same as always. Like I said, I was gonna tell you at prom, but you got a little -” The tiniest smirk twitches at one corner of her pink-glossed lips. “Distracted.” She waits for an answer that’s not forthcoming, eventually nudging him. “So?”

“So?”

“So... are we gonna talk about it?”

He bristles a little. “What?”

_“What?”_ she mimics in a deep voice. Then she rolls her eyes. “Mike. Duh.”

Will’s fingers interlock, squeeze together, and then he finds that he can’t look her in the eyes anymore. He’s still a little guilty about that whole thing. It’s irrational, he knows, but sometimes he looks at her joking around with Mike and guilt starts to pool in his stomach like lead. Like he stole Mike away from her. Which isn’t what happened, and he knows that, but it doesn’t make it any easier to acknowledge aloud like this.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last.

“Why? I told him to do it.” Will doesn’t really know what to say to that, and after a few seconds of somewhat awkward silence, El tilts toward him conspiratorially. “What’s it like?”

There’s genuine curiosity in her voice, and Will is surprised when he doesn’t instinctually draw back. With anyone else he’d clam up, mistrustful and loathe to let slip any details, but this is El. She’s as much his sister as Jonathan is his brother. So Will just sighs, tilting his head back as he thinks.

“It’s... amazing,” he answers, quietly, and he can feel his face redden at the honesty. But El deserves the truth, and part of Will has been desperate to tell somebody about it since the beginning.

He thinks about Mike. About how they’re so much closer now than they’ve ever been, and it’s not the physical stuff - although, that too. It’s about how open they are with each other, now. How they’re not afraid to show emotions around the other, no matter how silly or sentimental. He thinks about how they’re not perfect, and they’ve hurt each other without meaning to; Will still has to nag Mike not to treat him like “the girl” sometimes, and Will knows he can be too snappish and all too often say something hurtful unintentionally. But they trust each other. He thinks about how Mike used to make his heart race, but now he makes Will feel calm. Safe. Like everything is okay, or will be, even when it isn’t.

But he doesn’t know how to say all that, and he’s not sure El wants to hear it. So he just says, “I never... I dunno. I never really thought I’d have this. You know?”

She nods, soberly. “Is it how you expected? Like in movies?”

“No,” Will answers immediately. “No, it’s... nothing like I expected.” And he doesn’t know how to say this, either, but somehow it’s _better_. Because it’s not like the movies. Because it’s real. “We fight,” he says, and then adds, “A lot.”

And El laughs. And Will laughs, too, because it feels like such a relief to talk to her about this.

“We never fight dirty, though. Not like -” _Not like our parents_ , he thinks. “Not... no yelling, no name calling. No ignoring each other.”

Because they made an agreement, weeks and weeks ago. They agreed never to treat each other like their parents did. Joyce and Lonnie’s explosive yelling matches. Ted and Karen’s sullen, resentful cold-shoulders. They refuse to do that. If they’re going to fight, they have it out, and it’s usually resolved by the next day.

El is nodding along, smiling a little. “When are you gonna tell the others?”

“Ah, I dunno.” Will gives a loose sort of _beats me_ gesture. “I keep saying we should, but Mike... He’s pretty nervous about somebody finding out already. I mean, I get it. You know how his parents are. And I know the others wouldn’t tell anybody, but...”

“He’s scared.”

“Yeah.” For the second time since this morning, something goes off at the edge of Will’s consciousness. A little red flag. He glances to the door, the small window, but there’s no one there. Still, he hikes his shoulders up a little as he repeats, “I get it. I mean, I am, too.”

El frowns, like she’s realizing something. “Have you told Mike? About -” She gestures vaguely, indicating Will and his makeshift training setup in the shed. “This?”

He shakes his head. “I will. Soon. I just - I need to control it first. I don’t...” And here he trails off, because the truth is hard to say. But it’s El, and if anyone on this whole planet would understand, El would. She always does. “I don’t want him to be scared. Of me,” he admits quietly. “I was scared - when I first realized. I don’t want him to think that I might hurt him, I... I almost did. The week before prom, I had a nightmare and...” He looks down at his hands.

El listens, silent and motionless, her warm brown eyes the only indication that she’s not a statue in the dim light.

“He woke me up, but I almost... I know I shocked him.” He looks up at her. “What if it had been just a little bit more powerful? I could’ve -”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I _could’ve_. And it scared the hell out of me. And I don’t want Mike to be scared of me too. I wanna be able to control it, before I tell him. So I can show him. So I can show him I’ve got it under control, so he doesn’t have to worry that I might...”

El puts a hand on Will’s shoulder, those infinitely wise, childish eyes boring right through his head. “Will. I understand.”

He nods and sniffs, suddenly becoming aware of the heat rising behind his nose, stinging his eyes.

She hefts herself to her feet in one smooth motion, unfolding like a crane, and thrusts out a hand. “So let’s do it.”

“What?”

She waits until he takes her hand. “Practice.”

* * *

 It’s hard work, and El is a strict teacher. Every time Will misses a mark, or has to sit down to catch his breath, she simply taps him and says, “Again.”

She has him try to strike one of the cans across the room, like he did last time. Each one, in order, starting over each time he miscalculates.

“Again.”

She sets up the radio, an old lamp, and the toy car across the room and drills him until he can turn them on and off without lifting a finger.

“Again.”

She digs out a string of Christmas lights from a storage box, lays them out across the floor, and waits patiently while Will struggles to light them up. One at a time, all the way down the string. Blue, then white, then pink, then orange, then blue. It gets easy, after a minute or two. Far too easy. And far too familiar - but he pushes that out of his mind as he concentrates. He grows bold about halfway down the string and begins blinking out messages in morse, to El’s delight - and then to her horror as a spiral of lightheadedness sends him to his knees. He puts his head down until the dizziness fades a little, El rubbing his back and saying, “Okay, let’s take a break, let’s take a break.”

She makes him sit down while she nips inside the house, and when she returns she’s carrying a glass of juice and a piece of toast, slathered with dijon mustard and topped with sandwich meat. As a rule, Will doesn’t like dijon, but he eats it without complaint.

“Protein,” she says matter-of-factly as he chews. “Helps get your energy back. Sugar -” She points to the juice - “Helps too.”

As they rest, Will explains what he learned last time. How he thought the power was only defensive, at first, but he was wrong.

“I was only able to do it last time when I started thinking about things that made me -”

El cuts in, murmuring, “Angry.”

Will shakes his head and swallows the bite of toast and turkey. “Happy,” he says, and her head twitches up to look at him. “I just... I tried to think about good things. Good days. And...”

He puts down the toast and holds his hands a few inches apart. Hair-thin blue-white bolts sparkle between them, like a miniscule, monochrome fireworks show.

There’s an odd expression on her face. Proud, maybe, but curious. When she nods to his hands, her features are smooth again. “Feeling better?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Let’s finish up with the lights, then. Maybe after that we’ll call it a day.”

They spend another half an hour in the shed, but Will is getting tired, and El is leery of pushing him too hard after he collapsed last time. Before they go inside, Will blinks out one last message on the lights:

\- .... .- -. -.- / -.-- --- ..-

* * *

 God _damn_ that was the longest dinner of Will’s life.

It’s because of that damn shower. Mike was sweaty and grimy after spending all afternoon with the Party, helping Dustin set up his scientific contraption, and Will wasn’t in a much better state after his training session with El. They had to be quick, though. Jonathan was due back any minute to make dinner, and he definitely would have raised an eyebrow if he saw the two of them emerging from the bathroom together. A kiss or two under the hot water was all they had time for before soaping off and jumping out. And ever since, Will has been about ready to burst with pent-up tension. Thank god his mother is working late tonight, or her eagle-eyes would have seen right away how high-strung he was. Jonathan, on the other hand, was content to chatter on with Mike about... honestly, Will isn’t even sure what they were talking about. He joined in the conversation on autopilot, but he was entirely focused on trying not to pop a boner at the dinner table. His dumb brain just wouldn’t shut up about what he was going to do with Mike the very second they were alone - and hey, presto! Now they are.

Mike came straight back to the Byers’ after hanging out with the Party. His excuse was that he didn’t feel like going home, what with how weird his parents are being. _“I feel like the second I walk through the door they’re gonna swoop in and bite my head off,”_ he joked as they cleared up after dinner. But Will has a sneaking suspicion that it’s more than that. Maybe he wasn’t the only one with unfinished business after that shower.

So the moment the bedroom door is closed, Will wastes no time in backing Mike up against a wall and slotting their mouths together.

Mike tries to push back, but Will won’t let him. He’s in a strange mood. Maybe it’s just because he’s been waiting since the shower, but now he’s caught up in a keen surge of possessiveness. He wants Mike - but not just that. He wants to _claim_ Mike. He wants to _take_ and _bite_ and _control,_ and it’s getting harder and harder to suppress that urge. The kiss is all saliva and teeth, but Will’s stance is almost - protective? Yes, protective. He doesn’t know why. But something, some instinct in him is rising, driving him to cage Mike in with his limbs, to press his body over Mike’s into the wall, like he’s shielding him. Some vague but undeniable feeling curls through the spokes of Will’s ribs in ribbons, like his breath is trying to breach the skin of his own body and press into his boyfriend’s. And as Will snarls one hand into Mike’s hair and Mike gives a sharp little gasp, something in him is growling, _You’re mine. You’re okay. I won’t let anything happen to you. Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re mine. It’s okay. You’re okay._

Which is weird. Because nothing bad has happened today - today was a really good day, actually. But that’s just the way his weird, fucked-up brain is, sometimes. It sees danger and threat where there is none.

Despite the intensity that permeates all of Will’s actions, they’re not in a rush. Will is thorough, attentive. It’s a good day, summer vacation stretches out before them, rain is just beginning to tap at the windowpane, and he has Mike all to himself. And Mike doesn’t seem to mind. He’s sandwiched between Will and the wall, and seemingly perfectly content to stay there. Neck loose, head tilting to meet Will’s, jaw working languidly as he lets Will slide his tongue against Mike’s.

Will has made a recent discovery, these past few days: Mike’s ass is great for _grabbing._ And that’s what he does now, hands sliding down Mike’s sides and around his back until he reaches his destination. It never fails to make Mike jump. Now, to be objective about it, Mike doesn’t have the greatest ass ever, but damn is it cute. Just the right size for unexpectedly grabbing whilst making out, for the sole purpose of pulling Mike’s hips against his own.

Weeks ago, Will would have balked at the thought of rocking his hips against Mike’s, unannounced and abrupt. He would have pulled away from the thought, reminding himself not to be too weird or overwhelming. He doesn’t care now. If he overwhelms Mike, good. Let him be overwhelmed. Let him drown in sensation, and let Will watch. That’s all he wants. So when they start grinding together and Mike’s own boner prods against Will’s lower belly, Will shivers. The arousal that he’s been desperately trying to tamp down all evening now roars to the surface, making him groan and buck blindly against Mike in a moment of pure impatient impulse. Mike bites at his lip and then mumbles, “Jonathan’s home.”

That’s right. They have to keep quiet. How annoying.

The blinds are closed, but the blue-gray light of the rainy summer evening still manages to seep into the room. Will draws back just far enough trace his eyes over Mike’s face. In the soft light, it’s harder to make out the faint Milky Way of freckles that spans Mike’s cheeks and nose. They’re becoming more conspicuous, now that it’s summer. By the fall they’ll be dark enough to see from across a room - but not yet. Just now, at the very beginning of summer, you have to be very close to properly make them out. Will drags the pad of one thumb across Mike’s cheekbone, following that faint smattering of freckles, and then seals their mouths together. And that’s when a switch goes off somewhere in his brain, impatience catalyzing all the heat and _need_ in him. One second he’s intently making out with Mike against the wall, and the next he’s pulling Mike across the room by the shirtfront and pushing him down onto the mattress.

It’s here, crawling over Mike in one slow, deliberate motion, that something hits him. As much as Will has a pretty obvious kink for control - no real denying that one - he’s starting to think that Mike likes _being_ controlled. It’s something Will has taken notice of before, but never fully realized - and now that he’s really paying attention, it’s undeniable. Loud, headstrong, stubborn Mike, the natural leader, gets off on relinquishing control. He’s practically _whining_ now _,_ going pliant under Will’s hands - not limp. Not ragdoll. Just _pliant,_ allowing himself to be guided and positioned. And Will, nearly feverish with this new realization, decides to see just how far he can push it.

“Lift up,” he says, and though he tries to sound confident his voice shakes. He’s never intentionally been, well, _dominant_ before, and he’s a nervous wreck about what he’s about to try.

Mike’s brows furrow in confusion for a moment, but then he understands and sits halfway up so that Will can bunch his shirt up and over his head. And then, perched with his knees on either side of Mike’s thighs, he reaches for the buckle of his belt. A quick glance and a nod gives him permission, and he undoes the clasp in a heartbeat. The metal of the buckle is warm from Mike’s body heat, and Will takes the time to draw the belt all the way free, one loop at a time, before dropping it onto the carpet with a dull _clink._ He’s careful not to brush the tent in Mike’s jeans as he works at the button and zipper. Mike lifts his hips without being asked. Will hooks his fingertips into the band of Mike’s boxers and pulls them down along with the jeans, careful to maneuver them over his dick without jarring anything. Mike shifts a little, then, clearly surprised to find himself fully naked without warning. Will pushes the clothes off the side of the bed and sits there, fully clothed, gazing down at his prey. His heart is pounding, his pulse _ticking_ away in the tips of his fingers. Mike squirms under the inspection, seeming unsure what to do with himself, and Will swallows.

From his seat on Mike’s thighs, Will takes in the scene before him. Mike is all limbs, laid out over Will’s unmade bed, gangly and ungainly in a way that’s endearing. He’s always had proportionally long limbs and big hands, even when he was a little kid. His skin is pale and freckled, and Will’s eyes ghost over his frame, taking in those freckles that - yes - _are_ dusted all the way from head to feet, just like he used to imagine. From the thick cluster on the tops of Mike’s shoulders, they trail down his arms and chest. Only a few are peppered over his stomach, and even fewer down his thighs. But Will’s attention has been waylaid. He has to swallow again, and realizes belatedly that his mouth is flooding with saliva.

He’s seen Mike naked before. Several times, by now - but never like this. They’re always in a frenzied rush, distracted by undressing and kissing and touching, bodies pressed tight together. He’s never gotten to just sit back and observe before, and he must say, he’s not sure why he passed up that opportunity before now. Mike’s chest is rising and falling with each heavy breath. His face is a gorgeous mess, hair on end from Will’s attentions, lips flushed and swollen from kissing, eyes dark and bright. His dick stands up against his belly, flushed a deeper shade than his lips. And maybe it’s immature, but Will can’t help but compare. Mike’s, he thinks, is a tad thicker - though not quite as long - and the coarse hair that trails down his lower belly and between his thighs is tightly curled and jet black.

Will wants to taste him. And all at once, with a kind of jolt, he realizes - _he can._ He’s not just pining from a distance anymore, always yearning for something he can never touch. He’s here, and this is happening, and it’s real. He’s perched on top of his fully nude boyfriend, with arousal rippling through him like a plucked wire and rain drumming at the window and roof, drowning out the small noises of their movements. And moreover: Mike wants him, too. Will finally started to believe that on the couch in the Wheelers’ basement, where Mike actually _asked_ to give Will a blowjob. As if Will was doing Mike a favor, and not the other way around. And the _sounds_ Mike made, with those beautifully shaped lips wrapped around him and those deep-dark eyes looking up through his eyelashes - god. It was like a dream. Like his fantasies come to life.

Mike wants him - really, truly. He’s not just putting up with this, playing along for Will’s benefit. Mike wants this, and the full reality of it makes Will grin in a way that bares his teeth. Not a smile, exactly, but something halfway-savage.

Mike’s breath catches audibly. “What?” he says, and Will just quirks an eyebrow and slides back a foot or two. Positioning himself.

He swoops down without warning. His tongue is dripping saliva already, making his path frictionless as he drags it from base to tip. Mike makes this choked sound, twitching up against Will’s mouth, and Will wraps a hand around the base of the shaft to angle it. The taste is just on the shivering edge of familiar. It tastes like Mike. Not like his soap or cologne or shampoo, but like _him._ Like the way the skin of his neck tastes, on the rare early mornings that Will can entice a half-asleep Mike into a makeout session. Something like musk and warmth, heavy, with a hint of salt. Will licks up the whole length again, eyes closed, trying to lock the flavor into his mind. He flicks his tongue over the slit, exploring the shape - learning the ridges and slopes of the flared head, which is curved differently than Will’s. Mike has dragged Will’s pillow over his head, and is now releasing a steady stream of weak, muffled noises into it.

And, well, that’s no good, is it? Will likes to see his face. He likes to see the expressions he can draw out of him.

Will pulls away, a spidersilk-fine thread of saliva bridging his lower lip and the head of Mike’s dick for just a split-second. He cants forward, drags the pillow out of Mike’s hands and off his face, and drops a kiss on his lips.

“Don’t move,” he whispers, and before Mike can react, Will is on his feet. He crosses the room to grab his desk chair, goes to the door, and braces the back of the chair under the handle - just in case. It’s locked, of course, but with Jonathan home... can’t be too careful.

A small shock of satisfaction runs through him when he turns back and sees that Mike hasn’t moved. He’s in the same position, cheeks stained a dark pink, breathing hard and watching Will.

Half of Will wants to saunter over slowly, making Mike wait. But the other half wins out within half a second, and two steps carry him back across the room and on top of Mike, who arches up into the kiss with a sweet, strangled little moan.

“Can you -” Mike says against his lips, and cuts off with a shallow breath. His hands come up to tug at the sides of Will’s shirt.

“What?” Will says, deciding to tease. He knows what Mike is asking, but he won’t give it to him that easy.

That backfires when Mike doesn’t complain, doesn’t withdraw, doesn’t even pout. He just gives the fabric another small tug and half-whispers, “Take this off?”

Because, fucking hell, if Will wasn’t turned on before he is _painfully_ so now. He wastes no time in granting the request, flinging his shirt somewhere into the increasingly dim light of the room. When he returns to the kiss their chests brush together, the skin-to-skin contact turning Will’s whole body blood-hot and sensitive.

Will cards his fingers through Mike’s hair, and for the first time, gives in entirely to that dark, vicious side of himself that he’s been trying so hard to quash. He grinds down mercilessly, letting Mike thrust up against the rough fabric of Will’s pants - and then he pops his hips up, hovering too high for Mike to reach, and a groan of frustration slips past Mike’s lips. Will kisses him to muffle it, and that’s when another impulse hits him. This time he acts on it immediately, digging around in the loose bedding until he finds Mike’s wrists. His heart _thuds_ in his ears as he pulls Mike’s hands up, up, up over his head, pinning them there and watching a little flash of fear cut through Mike’s eyes.

“This okay?” Will murmurs, pausing for a moment to nuzzle against Mike’s temple. He waits until Mike nods, knocking their foreheads together slightly.

“You’ve still got pants on,” Mike points out.

“So I do.”

Mike huffs at him, and Will suppresses the smile that almost curled his lips. Truth be told, he’d much rather have the pants _off._ His skin is crawling with energy, hypersensitive to the point of feeling raw, but this has become a game. And he won’t lose.

Mike fidgets, maybe a little shy about voicing his desires aloud, but after a moment he closes his eyes and again whispers, “Take them off?”

“Hmm.” Will noses along the underside of Mike’s jaw, breathing in his scent. “No.”

“Please?”

The skin of Will’s scalp and the back of his neck tightens with gooseflesh. Unbidden, his body collapses into a hard, messy kiss, molding itself to Mike’s. Because Mike saying _please_ \- just _please,_ in that particular quiet, desperate tone - is Will’s absolute undoing. Mike could say _please_ like that and Will would do anything. He’d kill somebody if Mike asked. He’d face any number of monsters. He’d turn back time.

Holding Mike’s wrists in one hand, Will manages to work himself free from his jeans with the other. He shoves them down his hips, impatient, and kicks them off his legs, miraculously never breaking the kiss. Mike’s body gives a little spasm as Will finally lines himself up with him, their bodies pressed together head-to-toe. Legs tangled, hips rolling in a continuous, involuntary pulse of motion, mouths open to each other. Will feels like his whole being has been carbonated. Like his lungs, his blood, his heart and brain are all fizzing and sparkling with lust. He presses Mike down into the mattress and kisses him until his lips ache.

The pressure and friction between them is exquisite, but not nearly enough, and Will finds himself just about ready to crawl out of his skin with need. Mike must be similarly frustrated, because when Will breaks the kiss to pant against his neck, Mike says, “Will - _god_ \- can you -?”

Will draws back and waits, reveling in the power that roars up like a fire in his belly when Mike realizes he has to say it.

Mike licks his lips - and, fuck, that should be _illegal_ \- and then, red-faced, he looks Will directly in the eyes. And he must have noticed the effect of that word on his boyfriend, because he uses it again, intentionally this time. “Touch me,” he breathes, “Will, _please._ ”

Will feels his cock twitch where it’s pinned between them. He nips one more kiss into Mike’s mouth, and then releases his wrists and rolls to the other side of the bed. At the very back of the bottom drawer of his bedside table, there’s a half-empty bottle of lube.

“See,” he says, a little out of breath and waving the bottle teasingly. “I, unlike _some_ people, was prepared.”

“Fuck off,” Mike laughs, and then groans as Will gets a palmful of the silk-smooth liquid and slathers it down his length.

The faint beginnings of an idea start to prod at Will’s brain as he watches Mike. Mike is thrusting up into his hand already, head pushed back into the pillow, and honestly Will _could_ just finish him off here and now. But he doesn’t want this to be over yet. The thought drifts through his consciousness, quiet and innocuous as a cloud. And once it’s there, he can’t let go if it. Can’t stop imagining it. The idea has occurred to him before, but he never, ever thought Mike would be the slightest bit into it. But now... Will isn’t sure. Especially with Mike so caught up in lust, putty in Will’s hands, and _especially_ after that blow job that convinced Will that maybe Mike does want all of him, after all. Will has always been a little nervous about being on the receiving end, because it seems like such an intensely vulnerable thing. Even with Mike, who he trusts more than anyone, that makes him balk a little. Even years after everything happened, he still has issues with feeling vulnerable. But if _he_ was the one doing it to _Mike,_ well...

Will’s hand has slowed, and Mike makes a questioning noise.

At the very least, he can try. He can ask.

Will crawls over him, and flips them. Mike follows without complaint, accepting the offered kiss. Mike’s legs end up draping over Will’s, knees parted around Will’s body. He’s propped up slightly on his elbows to avoid dropping all of his weight onto his boyfriend’s slightly smaller frame. And Will draws in a long breath. He just needs to ask, but all at once he’s nervous - maybe because he wants to so badly, and he’s so afraid that it’s going to ruin everything. That Mike will shove him away with a disgusted snarl of, “Are you serious?”

But Will forces himself to swallow down his anxieties, and tilts back from the kiss to murmur, “Babe?” And an immediate ripple of sheepishness pulls through him, making him curl into himself a little, because he did _not_ mean to use a pet name.

But Mike just hums, “Hmm?” and Will spends every last ounce of his bravery to say, “Can I try something?”

Mike is already nodding, and it makes Will’s heart swell because Mike trusts him so much that he didn’t even hesitate.

Will still hurries to say, “We don’t have to. Just - just tell me to stop and I will. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mike says, and now he sounds maybe the slightest bit nervous - probably because Will made such a big deal out of it - but he nuzzles immediately into the kiss when Will tilts his face up.

Without breaking the kiss, Will finagles the bottle of lube open and manages to get a good amount on his right hand - his fingers, specifically. Mike’s upper body is still propped up a little on his elbows, legs parted over Will’s thighs, calves relaxed on either side of Will’s. Will doesn’t even have to adjust them; he just snakes his hand around Mike’s side, down his lower back. A drop of lube drips from the tip of Will’s forefinger as he moves, landing on Mike’s skin - giving Mike a second’s forewarning. Mike stops when he feels the drop hit his ass cheek, and Will holds his breath. Expecting him to pull away any second - expecting that disgusted scoff to rise from Mike’s throat. But no. Mike just pauses, and then slowly begins to kiss back again, and something in Will’s chest and throat is vibrating with tension as he keeps moving.

Will’s hand dips, two fingers curling down to their destination. He moves as smoothly as he can - not quickly enough to startle Mike, but not so slowly that he’ll lose his nerve, either. The heel of his hand comes to rest right at the base of Mike’s spine - at that smooth transition between his lower back and his ass, right between those two dimples that Will just adores. And then just another inch or so further down. Mike goes a little tense over Will - no, not tense, exactly - more like _taut_ , like an energy is running through him - but otherwise he remains still. He doesn’t cringe away. He doesn’t say _no, stop, I changed my mind._ Will’s two fingers, meanwhile, swipe down between the cheeks.

Will is so focused on Mike’s reaction that he can hear both of their heartbeats while he moves. He thinks maybe he’s holding his breath, and their kiss goes still as the pads of Will’s fingers, dripping with lube, trace up the cleft until they locate their target. Now, Will is a little lost from this point forward. Sex Ed in sixth grade didn’t exactly cover this. At the very least, he knows he’s supposed to start slow. The small handful of times he’s done this on himself - and he doesn’t do it very often, since every time he ends up overwhelmingly guilty about how undeniably it proves that he’s a _disgusting fag_ , and he always feels ashamed and vaguely dirty for hours afterwards - but the small number of times he _has_ tried it has given him a tiny bit of experience. He knows to start slow. And quite frankly it would seem a little rude to just go ahead and stick a whole finger in without permission, anyway.

So he starts by just rubbing. Slowly. One soft swipe over the delicate pucker of skin - which, by the way, is so much smoother than he expected. He didn’t know what he expected. When he did this to himself he wasn’t really worried about texture - he was mostly just trying to twist his wrist at an uncomfortable angle, awash in mixed excitement and shame for enjoying something that he _really_ should not have been enjoying. But this? Will actually can’t believe how much he’s looking forward to this. He’s got Mike draped over him - one warm, heavy mass, his scent washing over Will - and Will’s upper arm is snugged around Mike’s side, his wrist at just the right position to reach his target without straining. It’s comfortable. It feels natural, somehow. And Will finds himself sighing, eagerly anticipating when he can slip one finger past that tight barrier, just to see what it feels like. But not yet. For now, he swipes back over the ripple of skin, spreading the lube. And then begins to rub. Gently, in little circles, using the pads of both fingers to stroke.

Mike breaks away from Will’s lips and ducks his head, like he’s trying to hide his face. Will listens for the slightest whisper, the barest hint of a word - he’s still expecting that _no, stop_ to come out any minute - but Mike just breathes. Just a little bit harder than normal - like he’s consciously controlling his breaths. Under Will’s fingers, he feels Mike twitch, and it sends a little thrill through Will’s belly. He strokes a little more firmly, pressing down just the slightest bit with the tip of one finger - and his breath catches with another wave of gratification when he feels the flesh yield.

“Can I...?” he whispers, and waits with his heart in his throat, because dear _god_ he does not want to pull away now that the delicious heat is literally at his fingertips, but of course he’ll stop if Mike doesn’t want - but - shit. Holy shit. Mike just _nodded_. “Yeah?” Will whispers, and then nudges Mike’s head with his own. “Say it, okay? I won’t do it without a yes.”

And Mike, trembling a little in Will’s arms and breathing in long, ragged breaths, mumbles a cracked, “Yeah,” into Will’s neck.

Will fumbles with his free hand to get more lube, lifting away regretfully to re-slather his fingers, and then presses his hand back in place and lines up a finger. Feels Mike tense. Nudges up Mike’s head until he can draw him into a kiss, waits until Mike relaxes a little. And that’s when Will presses in. Just a fingertip, to start.

Will’s heart begins to jackhammer. Something warm and weightless is swelling just above his diaphragm, filling up his lungs until he can’t breathe, climbing his throat and swimming behind his eyes until all he can see is Mike. He’s trying to absorb everything, every detail, every sound and scent. He wants to remember everything.

He goes incrementally. Mike is about a thousand degrees and so incredibly smooth - like _butter_ . It seems like both a millenia and a split second before Will finally sinks his finger in to the second knuckle and moans softly at the same time that Mike does. He pulls out, the lube making the motion slick and effortless - and then presses back in. Slowly, a little farther, and then again just a degree faster, and then he sinks in fully. And, oh, _god_ . He never expected it to be so soft, or smooth, or so scorching hot. He draws back almost entirely, and Mike gives a nearly imperceptible shudder, and then he sinks back in from fingertip to knuckle. He starts to pump in and out - just the one finger, for now - and he realizes that he’s started to grind himself up against Mike’s stomach, because _fuck,_ he’s more turned on than he ever has been in his life.

“Okay?” Will asks, his voice little more than a thin whisper. He gets a small nod in return.

He didn’t notice at first, focused on his task as he was, but now as he establishes a rhythm he feels it. Mike’s boner - which slacked off a little, understandably - is back, prodding at Will’s hip as Will humps up against him, hungrily seeking friction. It buoys Will’s confidence exponentially. Tendrils of pleasure curl through him, tightening, sinking roots deep into his belly until he shivers.

Will can feel the exact moment that Mike’s muscles start to relax and his walls start to clench. He takes it as a sign to speed up, getting just a little rougher. Thrusting rather than stroking. And that’s when Mike moans aloud for the first time since this started. It’s a low, choked little sound, and it seems to shoot straight down Will’s spine and to his dick.

He presses his lips into Mike’s hair to check in again with a whisper. “Should I stop?”

Mike pants against Will’s neck, and then lifts his face for the first time in minutes. His eyes flick away almost immediately upon meeting Will’s, as if his gaze is a bright light, but Will can still make out the little scrunch of pleasured concentration between his eyebrows. Mike’s weight long ago sagged onto Will, making it a tad harder to breathe, but he doesn’t care a bit.

Finally, as if battling himself and losing, Mike shakes his head with a shuddering inhale. _Don’t stop._

“Can I add another?” Will asks, and he actually sees the color rise up Mike’s neck and into his face - but he feels Mike’s walls flutter at the mere suggestion, and he knows before Mike nods what the answer will be.

Will doesn’t force a verbal _yes_ out of him this time, he only withdraws his hand, rubs his fingers together to make sure they’re still slick enough, and then eases two fingers in. Mike lets out a little puff of breath, eyes squeezing shut, and then rolls forward to capture Will’s mouth with his own, thrusting his tongue against Will’s in a sloppy, unfocused, fervent kiss. Will’s brain is just an aching, melting chaos of heat and want and _Mike_ , and as their teeth scrape together all he can think is _mine mine mine._

Will has been pulsing his hips up against Mike since the beginning, hard flesh sliding together in a way that’s awkward and _wonderful_ , but now - completely accidentally, this first time - his movements sync up. For a beat or two he finds himself pushing his hips up at the same moment that his fingers pump down, and Mike makes a sound that can only be described as a _mewl_. Will crashes their lips together, muffling the noise, because Jonathan is just two rooms away. But once it happens, Will keeps chasing it. He’s not very good at maintaining the rhythm, but he keeps trying, and his reward is the twitching, quivering flesh that’s opening up to him, swelling under the pads of his fingers.

Will can’t help it. As they move together, he starts to daydream. He imagines what it would be like to bury himself in that smooth, buttery heat, and he gasps involuntarily at the thought, arousal trembling through him, lighting up his sweat-damp skin in waves of tingling want. He imagines flipping them, hiking Mike’s legs up around his waist, watching Mike’s face as he eases down. Will bites hard on Mike’s lower lip, that strange possessiveness coiling in him again, and Mike lets out a breathy sound of either pain or encouragement, Will can’t tell which. Will’s hips are pumping up against Mike’s without his control, now, grinding against whatever he can reach, and Mike is bucking against him in turn - emitting low, breathy sounds every few seconds, his whole body tight as a wire over Will, hips pulling down to meet Will’s and then arching back to meet his fingers. They’re writhing together in an unpracticed, uncoordinated dance.

He wants to add a third finger, he wants to do _so many_  things - but he won’t. Not this time. This time, two is more than enough, and he can feel the tunnel twitching and pulsing around his fingers. Will’s wrist is starting to ache and cramp from the see-sawing motion, and they end up changing positions at his suggestion. Will rolls them onto their sides so that he can keep pulsing his fingers into Mike - at a different angle, now, and it makes Mike gasp and full-body jerk - while Mike grasps himself. There’s barely enough room between them to move at all, but it doesn’t seem to hinder Mike any. He pumps himself, breathing harshly, until he comes just a minute or two later. When he does, he clamps down over Will’s fingers, fluttering, and Will kisses him to swallow the soft, intense little “ _Hah -”_ that he emits.

Afterwards, Mike insists on taking some of the lube for himself and finishing off Will, too, though Will would have been perfectly happy even if he didn’t come at all. It doesn’t take much to convince him, though, and Will hooks an arm around Mike’s neck while Mike touches him. He falls back into his fantasy, pretending that it’s not just Mike’s hand that’s squeezing his length but _Mike_ , pulsing with his rapid heartbeat and scorching hot and _so_ tight, and Will leaves tooth marks in Mike’s shoulder because he comes so close to groaning out his name.

* * *

 “Do you have to?”

“Yeah,” Mike answers regretfully as he zips up the hoodie that Will insisted he borrow. It’s a little small on him, but it’s better than nothing. The rain isn’t so bad, but he’d freeze biking home in just a tee shirt. “I have to do laundry. Or at the very least, grab some more clothes. I’ve been wearing these ones for like three days.”

Will bats a hand through the air, dismissive. “Three days? Pfft. Amateur.”

Mike grins as he tucks his Walkman down his shirtfront. He’s got the mixtape loaded up, ready to play, and carefully he pulls the hood up over his headphones to shield them from the rain. Will fidgets. That gut instinct is back. The sudden, baseless worry that something is going to go wrong. _What,_ he’s not sure. It’s harder to dismiss, this time, and he peers at the sky as he opens the front door. It’s nearly 7:45pm, but the sun hasn’t set yet - not that you could tell through the clouds and the rain. Still, it’s plenty light enough to see, and that eases his anxiety a little. Mike won’t be riding home in the dark, at least.

Jonathan is still hiding away in his room, so Will presses up for one last kiss before Mike rides away. “Bye.”

He swallows the ridiculous urge to add, _be careful._

“Bye.”

Mike fishes out the Walkman to hit _play_ , then shoves it safely into his clothes again before running his bike a few feet and hopping on.

Something in Will wants to watch him ride away until he’s out of sight. He doesn’t. He turns away and shuts the door against the patter of rain and the smell of mud. Back in his room, he sits down on the edge of his mattress and holds his hands a few inches apart. Focuses. Lightning jumps between them.

* * *

 Lightning jumps between two clouds as Mike pedals towards home. He’s riding into the storm; he can actually make out the wave of rain coming towards him, and he braces himself as it hits. The Walkman should be fine - he’ll be home before the rain quite soaks through Will’s hoodie.

He already listened to a few of the songs earlier today, on his way back to the Byers’. Mr. Mister, Pseudo Echo, Queen, Bowie. Now he listens through _Need You Tonight_ by INXS as he coasts through the edge of town, head down against the rain, and another Queen song starts up as he nears his own neighborhood. _You’re My Best Friend._ He huffs out a little laugh. For all that Will teases Mike about being a sap, he’s just as guilty of it.

The rain hasn’t managed to dampen his spirits, yet, and he even hums along a little as he coasts down a hill. The closing chords fade out, and the opening notes of the next song burst around him, sparkling and upbeat as he turns onto his street. _Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now_ by Starship. He’s bubbly-happy, still high off Will, wrapped in his boyfriend’s hoodie, happily daydreaming as he arrives home and stows his bike against the side of the house. Lightning strobes over the sky again, but the music drowns out the growl of thunder.

_“_ _Let 'em say we're crazy, I don't care about that. Put your hand in my hand, baby, don't ever look back. Let the world around us just fall apart; baby, we can make it if we're heart-to-heart.”_

He unlocks the front door with a flourish and walks in, singing along under his breath, a bounce in his step. He tosses the keys in the air, catches them with a swipe of his palm, and drops them into the key bowl.

_“_ _And we can build this dream together, standing strong forever. Nothing's gonna stop -”_

The music in his head cuts off like somebody grabbed the singer in a chokehold. Because something is immediately and terribly wrong. Mike pushes the headphones down from his ears, his heart rate picking up as he meets the solemn gaze of his parents. He pulls the Walkman out of his shirt and fumbles at the _pause_ button until the song stops.

They’re sitting at the kitchen table. Just sitting, not talking, not eating, not doing anything. And then Mike notices the scrap of glossy paper on the table between them. It’s bent in the middle, one half sticking up in the air from the crease. It’s a photostrip, and even from here Mike can make out the familiar shapes of the pictures. And in a single moment, everything shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)  
> Please do let me know what you think!  
> P.S. here's the mixtape:  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLmeb9zgOvD-jkt8D3kx470_E2yrjDwiS8


	10. The Storm: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know I just posted Ch 9 less than a week ago, BUT this is technically just Part 2 of the same chapter, so... yolo I'm posting it

Rain drums against the side of the house. The kitchen is lit by a single lamp, which hangs over the table where Mike’s parents sit, facing each other. Mike stands in the vaguely cluttered space between the entryway and the kitchen, trying to convince himself that he’s wrong. That this isn’t what it looks like.

He can’t move. Everything inside him is dropping, imploding, like he’s folding in on himself and falling through the floor at the same time. It’s a hollow, sick feeling, somehow crushingly tight and nauseatingly detached at the same time - like the boundaries of the world just glitched, and all at once his consciousness isn’t _quite_ tethered to his body anymore. He’s drifting, an inch one way and then the other - and then, when his father speaks, his soul _snaps_ into his body again and he sucks in a breath, like he just remembered, _oh, yeah, I can breathe - I should probably breathe._

“Son,” Ted says, with a nod and a twist of the wrist, gesturing to the chair between them “Why don’t you sit down?” Not coldly. Not aggressively. Just mild - neutral. And somehow that’s worse.

Mike’s mind is rocketing in circles. Trying desperately to convince himself. _This doesn’t mean what you think it means. It’s not what it looks like. That’s not really_ the _photo booth picture, your eyes just played tricks on you because you’re paranoid. It’s fine, don’t panic, just don’t panic. You don’t know for sure._

So he plays dumb. Because maybe - just maybe - this is something completely harmless. Or something completely unrelated. Maybe they want to talk about college. Or maybe they’re here to tell him they’re filing for divorce. A guy can dream. Mike clips the Walkman to the hip of his belt - still paused - and approaches. Heart in his throat. Hands and feet numb. He focuses on relaxing the muscles of his face as he takes a couple steps into the kitchen and hovers about a yard away from the table. And he doesn’t look at the glossy strip of bent paper. He doesn’t look. Because, in some deep corner of his mind, he knows what it is. And if he looks, and sees it there in front of him, then this all becomes real. Somehow, irrationally, he feels like he’s okay as long as he doesn’t see it. This isn’t real, this isn’t _happening,_ until he looks at that picture and knows for sure what it is - what it means.

So he forces himself to stand casually a few feet from the table, the foamy headphones of the Walkman hugging the glands of his throat. “Hey.” He’s proud of how steady his voice is, though the word tilts up at the end in the slightest hint of a question.

He looks to his mother, just to look at _something_ \- _anything_ but the picture. She may as well be a statue. She’s just _sitting_ there, sad and silent, eyes swollen, hair up in a sagging bun, a wine glass at her fingertips. Then, as he watches, her gaze flickers up from the table. It flits over Mike’s face, not quite meeting his eyes, and then slides down. Down to the hunter green hoodie that’s a size too small on him. Will’s hoodie. And her gaze subsides to the tabletop again.

“Sit down,” Ted says again, a little more firmly this time, and something in Mike wriggles in base horror, everything in him screaming to _run_.

“I should actually -” Mike blurts, and he doesn’t know what comes next. He flaps an arm vaguely towards the staircase. He wants to leave. He still won’t look at the picture, because as long as he doesn’t confirm it, he can still deny what might be happening. More than anything he wants to turn away, climb the stairs, and close his door. He wants to curl himself into the corner of his bed, open a book, read until he passes out - and then maybe, just maybe in the morning this will all have disappeared. The muscles in his legs ache with the desire to move, to run, to leave. But he can’t move his feet. He’s trapped. “I’m kinda tired, I should probably...”

The paper-thin excuse breaks down mid-sentence. Outside, the wind picks up with a whistle, pushing hard against the side of the house. Rain lashes at the kitchen window. The lamp hanging above the table illuminates the room, but the light seems thin, somehow, cold despite the yellowish glow.

He doesn’t mean to - doesn’t _want_ to - but he looks. The glossy paper draws his eyes like a magnet and once he looks he’s frozen. Immobile, breath scraping in and out of his lungs, heart jittering at a million miles an hour as he takes in the details of the photo booth strip that he and Will got at the mall, weeks and weeks ago. _Out of this world!_ the caption at the bottom reads, printed in a cheerful, goofy font. Cartoon stars pop around the black margins. He remembers taking those pictures. It was on a whim. Will wanted to do it, and Mike hates pictures of himself, but he agreed reluctantly. They were just playing around, at first, joking about alien ray-guns, pretending to shoot at each other. But then...

It’s just a tiny square, from here - a minuscule fraction of his field of view. But the third picture seems to swell and ripple, dancing in his vision until it’s all he can see. They’re turned towards each other, in the picture, Will’s nose pressed into Mike’s cheek, Mike’s mouth parted slightly to Will’s tongue. It’s blurry from their sudden movement, but there’s no mistaking what’s happening.

And that’s where it starts. Or, rather, where it ends. Everything. All of Mike’s fears popping like firecrackers before his eyes, all at once, coming true in one sickening swoop like missing a step on a staircase. Everything imploding on him all at once, all the consequences catching up to him.

He can’t look away. Something in his chest and throat is shaking, trembling hard, adrenaline _zing_ ing through his limbs in hard little bursts with the pumping of his heart.

Ted takes a half-breath, makes some movement that Mike can barely make out from of the corner of his eye - maybe clasping his hands together - and then says, “Look, we were hoping to have a...” He clicks his tongue behind his teeth, apparently searching for words. “A calm, adult conversation. Okay? That’s all. We’re not here to attack you.”

Mike considers saying, _what’s this about?_ But he quickly abandons the idea. The time has clearly passed for playing dumb. They’ve all seen it, now. They all know why they’re here.

“We’d like to get you some help,” Ted is saying. “We’re on your side here.”

Mike finally drags his gaze away from the picture, struggling to process the words he’s hearing. “Help?” he rasps out eventually, and both of his parents nod encouragingly.

“Like I said, no one’s here to attack you. You’re not in trouble. We just -”

“Help with what?” Mike cuts in sharply, and Ted sighs. His hands, laced together, bounce a bit over the table like he’s choosing his words. Eventually he says, “Your mother...”

Karen’s head wobbles towards him, her lips parting in a little breath like she’s going to say something. But she doesn’t. She just looks at her husband with puffy, red eyes as he goes on.

“Your mother found this while she was cleaning your room.” It’s a dry, clinical statement. Ted gestures with both of his clasped hands to the photos.

“What were you doing going through my stuff?” Mike tremors. He’s trying to be angry, indignant - because if he can summon up that fire, maybe it’ll burn through the rest of what he’s feeling.

“Well, it’s not fair to be mad at her,” his father is saying, “she was just trying to lend a hand.”

Karen sits up a little bit, leaning forward a degree, and speaks for the first time since he walked in the door. “Mike,” she says, and it’s clear that she’s been crying. She looks at him with those brown eyes - _his_ brown eyes - and she sounds so incredibly gentle when she says, “I know it’s... I know it’s hard, baby, and that you don’t want to talk to us about it, but -”

Mike falls back on playing clueless, as long as he possibly can, and snaps, “About _what?_ ”

She just looks up at him where he’s standing, something strange in her eyes. “Sweetheart... I know you’re in a -” Her wrist twirls for a moment as she makes a noise in her throat, like she’s trying to force something out. “A - homosexual relationship. With Will.”

Mike’s instinctual reaction of self-preservation is to start laughing. A strange, high-strung, high-pitched laugh that foams up his throat like vomit. “What?” he half-laughs. “What are -”

“It’s okay,” Karen says. She’s still looking at him, right into him, and she repeats in a half-whisper, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault, it’s -” And she makes an aborted gesture, one hand jerking towards her sternum as if she was about to indicate herself.

Something horrible occurs to Mike, just then, and he makes an entire one-hundred-and-eighty degree swing from nervous laughter to a venomous snarl. “Leave him alone.”

“We -”

“ _Don’t fucking touch him._ ”

“Whether Will decides to seek help or not is his business,” she says, and it’s the first time that Mike looks her in the eyes and trusts what she’s saying. “He’s not our son. You are.”

She looks to Ted and he nods in agreement. “Will’s not our concern here. We just want to talk through some options with you,” he says, and then adds, “Sit down, okay?”

Mike doesn’t sit down. His head has gone fuzzy with disbelief. He’s trying to reconcile how this day went so wrong, so quickly. An hour ago wasn’t he sprawled out in Will’s rumpled bedsheets, with his boyfriend pressed against him and the whole summer ahead of them, shiny-new and sparkling with possibility? And now -

Ted looks at Karen, like he’s expecting her to say something else, but when she doesn’t he rubs a hand over his face and starts talking about _help_ , about _professionals_ , about _doctors_ and _options_ and _not your fault._ Mike stares at the floor and tries to block it out, but he can’t stop seeing the “cures” he’s heard about. He imagines hearing a generator powering up. Feels phantom paddles pressed to his temples. The back of his throat tightens and lurches, tongue pulling to the back of his mouth in a near retch.

“- we understand how hard this must be for you, Mikey -”

“Don’t call me that,” Mike snarls, but Ted talks over him.

“- but we just want you to know that you’re not alone. We want to help you. We’re gonna help you fix this.”

Feeling floods back into his limbs in a surge of pins and needles and Mike pulls away, everything inside him sick and trembling as he spits out, “I’m not broken.”

“No, of course not. That’s not what we mean. We’re not saying you’re broken beyond repair, son. If that was the case there’d be no point in lending you a hand. But we _do_ want to lend a hand. If you’re having these... these _tendencies,_ you need some... That is to say, if you are a-”

“A what?” Mike challenges. He waits a second, watching his father get uncomfortable, and then says it again. “A what? A queer?”

“Well -” He breathes out a long breath, looking down at the table. “Well, yes, that’s -”

“So what if I am?” The words come out iron-hard, rusty in his throat but cold and unyielding. It sends a heady rush of blood straight to his brain, like he’s about to pass out. Because that’s the first time he’s ever admitted it to anyone besides himself, or El, or Will.

And then all at once he’s striding forward again, snatching up the photograph from the table and tearing it. Ripping it down the middle, and then crosswise, again and again until he can’t tear it anymore, and then he goes to the sink and stuffs the pieces into the garbage disposal, turns on the water, and runs it. He feels a pang of loss for the picture - it was one of the few tangible reminders he had of him and Will - but he won’t let it out them to anyone else.

He leans over the sink with both hands braced on the rim as he watches the pulpy remains dance and get swallowed up by the pipes. He thinks he might throw up. His movements are slow and precise as he turns off the water and the disposal, and even in the silence that follows he doesn’t hear his mother approach until she touches his shoulder. He jerks away.

“Sweetheart, we just want to help you feel better...” She looks him right in the eye, open and earnest and searching - and suddenly, Mike knows where he inherited that expression. The one Will says that Mike himself wears so often - the one he’s seen in some of Will’s drawings. “Please let me help you, honey. I _know_ how -” Her voice strains and she switches tracks with a helpless gesture, fingertips twitching. “It doesn’t have to be this way, does it? Couldn’t you find a nice girl? Elle was so sweet...”

That’s how she always pronounces _El._ Like it’s just short of being _Eleanor_ or _Elizabeth._

Thunder rolls over the house. Ted, apparently feeling left out, stands and wanders forward to plant himself at his wife’s shoulder so that they’re both facing Mike. Waiting expectantly for his reaction - for him to agree, relent.

That’s when it hits him. They know. They know already. He’s no longer hiding, he’s... he’s... And he almost snorts to himself, because he never really thought about it in these terms before, but: he’s not in the closet anymore. They already dragged him out against his will - there’s no point in being defensive anymore. He can no longer protect himself; they already caught him. And the anger he was reaching for before is abruptly at his fingertips, hot and electric, because, damnit, he was _happy._ What he has with Will is _good,_ and they were doing so well, and he was just starting to feel hopeful. And they’re trying to rip him away from that? Because of - of what, their outdated biases? Being queer was taken off the list of mental disorders fifteen whole years ago, for fuck’s sake. And his parents are still acting like he’s sick - like he has the flu, or cancer or something. Fuck that. Fuck that, and fuck them.

His voice is beginning to wobble, wetly, but it comes out flat and stiff when he opens his mouth. “Fuck you.”

“ _Hey,”_ Karen snaps, but Mike spits it out again, and again, voice growing more and more unsteady as he backs up blindly until he bumps into the counter -

“Fuck you, _fuck_ you -”

And then his father is trying to regain control of the situation, telling Mike not to be unreasonable, threatening and coaxing in turns, but Mike is barely processing the words. They keep going despite his silence, asking questions that Mike doesn’t answer, talking themselves down one branch of interrogation and then another. His father goes on at length, and then his mother interjects.

_How long has this been going on?_

_We’re just disappointed that you never approached us about this problem before it got out of hand._

_We raised you better than this, come now. You wouldn’t start doing heroin, would you? You wouldn’t join a gang, would you? So why do_ this _?_

And, perhaps the worst: _Did Will seduce you into it? We’re not going to judge you, everyone falls prey to temptation now and then. We just want an honest answer._

But Mike doesn’t resurface until his father wraps up a lecture with, “You have to realize that what you’re feeling isn’t real.”

“Oh, shut up, just shut up!” His voice whip-snaps into a hoarse shout halfway through the sentence, and once he starts yelling he can’t stop. “You don’t know anything _about_ us, you don’t know!”

He’s mortified to realize that he’s started to cry. Ugly, pathetic sobs heaving up between words. He hates himself for it.

Ted frowns, looking uncomfortable again. “Excuse me, young man, there’s no need for yelling here. We’re trying to have a calm adult conversation with you, you’re being unreasonable.”

“Why do you care what I do, anyway? Since w-when have you ever cared? It’s _my_ business who I’m in a relationship with, so - so why do -”

Ted cuts in, entirely too matter-of-factly, “It’s not up to me. I didn’t make the rules, son, but they _are_ the rules.”

“What rules?” Mike spits, “What fucking rules?”

His father makes small, flat gestures with him palm as he spells it out: “Human beings were designed a certain way for a _reason_. We were not designed for homosexual relationships -”

“Oh, bull -!”

“- and a homosexual relationship cannot ultimately successfully emulate a real -”

“-shit!”

He’s fully crying now, cheeks wet, the skin of his face hot and tender, his diaphragm jolting. He can’t stop. It’s like everything from the past months is pouring out. Everything. All the anxiety, all the paranoia, all the self-doubt, all the shame, the confusion, the longing, the fear, the anger - it’s all bubbling and swirling together now, and he tries to stop - he really tries to suppress the tears, to look up and force them back, to freeze his diaphragm so the sobbing stops. He tries so hard to be strong, to be stoic, to man up. But it’s hard, and he’s so tired, and he’s so scared. He can’t go to that place. He can’t. He can’t let them take part of himself away from him, he can’t -

“All right, look. I’m putting my foot down. I won’t have a faggot living in my house.”

Both Mike and Karen turn to look at him, wordless, because he sounds so uncharacteristically firm. That, and Mike can’t remember him ever using a slur like that. Usually when he’s off on a rant about this stuff he’ll use the very dry, medical term - _“homosexuals.”_

He goes on - “That crosses a line. We have a little girl living here. She’s eight, for christssake. I won’t have her exposed to that stuff. I won’t have drugs in my house, I won’t have satanic rituals in my house, and I won’t have faggots in my house. That’s not so unreasonable, is it?”

Mike flinches when he hears the word a second time, and then because it’s all he can do, he explodes again. Crying and yelling at once, screaming, saying things without thinking them, without even remembering them. There’s snot blocking his nose and threatening to run down his face, his lungs are heaving, he’s gesturing wildly, pointing, pacing. His father tries reasoning with him, and then switches tactics to reprimanding, accusing him of _blubbering_ and _dramatics_ and _acting like a baby isn’t going to get you anywhere, you know, so just cut it out._

It comes to a halt all at once. One moment Mike is shaking his head, stuttering, arguing in a last-ditch effort at self defense, and the next it’s over.

“I’m not going to - I’m not going to any _doctor,_ I won’t - _no._ ”

“Then if you feel like you’re old enough to make that decision, you’re old enough to take care of yourself. There’s the door.”

He blinks, breathing hard, not understanding. And then he does understand. He looks back and forth between his parents, helplessly, tears running freely down his cheeks. Waiting to see if it’s a bluff. But it’s not. His father is standing firm, for once in his life, and his mother is avoiding his eyes - but then she presses her lips together and nods in agreement.

Mike’s throat feels raw from yelling. He swallows. “What?”

“If you’re old enough to be making decisions like that, then you’re plenty old enough to be on your own,” he reiterates. “So, it’s up to you. We won’t force you. But if you’d like to remain a part of this household, you will be seeking medical attention for your condition. That is non-negotiable.”

Mike gapes at them. This can’t be real. “I...”

“Well, look, don’t make the decision now,” his father says, almost kindly. It turns Mike’s stomach. “We’ll sleep on it. It’s been a long night for everyone, let’s take a breather. We can have a mature discussion in the morning, and if you’re still determined to cling to this fantasy by then, you can see yourself out.”

Mike feels himself break then and there. He feels his whole life slipping through his fingers, running through his grip like sand. He looks at the choice in front of him, but - no. It’s not a choice. He has no choice.

Another wave of rain pulses against the house - a sharp and tattering sound, staccato. Mike barely hears his little sister’s voice over the noise.

“What’s going on?”

All three of them jump, turning to face the doorway. Holly and Nancy stand at the edge of the kitchen, Nancy’s hand on Holly’s shoulder. Holly looks back and forth between her brother’s red face and her parents. Her lower lip trembles. She always cries whenever Mike does.

Nancy steps around her and tries to hold out an arm to Mike, but he shrinks away. He can’t stand to have anyone touch him right now, not even her.

“What’s going on?” Nancy echoes. She turns on their parents. “What did you do? What’s going on?”

Karen is crying again. Ted is feebly attempting to regain control, shepherding Holly towards the stairs. “Holly, go back to bed, honey. Nancy -”

Karen steps forward, sobbing over the chaos as Mike backs towards the stairs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry - don’t, Michael, wait, let's talk about -”

But he’s already on the first step, slipping out of her reach, repeating, “Don’t touch me. Don’t _touch_ me.”

It’s over.

He flees.

Up the stairs, around the corner, into his room. Once the door slams behind him he claws the headphones off his neck and tosses the Walkman onto his bed.

There’s a weird, larger-than-life feeling hanging around him, turning the familiar angles and corners of the house strange, twisting shadows and turning colors lurid and acidic. He feels like he’s living out a scene from a movie. Things like this don’t happen in real life. The yelling, the ultimatums, the desperate flight up the stairs, pulling a suitcase from the closet, blindly shoving items into it. This can’t be real life. But it is. And Mike feels both acutely, unforgivingly _here,_ present - and at the same time numb and distant. But underlying all that there’s an elusive, heady sense of relief - of a weight vanishing from his shoulders, despite everything, because it’s over. It’s done. He doesn’t have to worry about his parents finding out anymore; he doesn’t have to worry about being caught. It already happened. Now all he has to do is survive the fallout. And it’s this twisted relief that makes him really break down, falling onto the corner of his bed and sobbing like a baby into his hands, snot oozing down his upper lip, eyes growing hot and swollen. He’s so full of emotions that his stomach hurts. It’s done with. It’s done. He can leave, but -

But he has to leave. He has to leave his childhood home, the only home he’s ever known. He has to leave behind everything -

But he’s free. He gets to leave this house, he gets to leave it all behind - just like he’s wished for years. He’s not shackled to his parents anymore, he doesn’t have to watch them fight and bicker and mope. The dual sense of loss and freedom, devastation and relief, war inside his head as he drags himself upright and makes himself pack.

He just wants Will. It’s been barely an hour since he saw his boyfriend last - god, has it been an hour already? Has it _only_ been an hour? - and he misses him.

The suitcase that Mike dragged down from his closet is an old, hand-me-down, hardshell case. It was periwinkle blue, once, but now it’s faded and grubby. It still has the tags from their family trip to Disney World fluttering from the handle, from when Mike was nine. He makes an impulsive grab for them and rips them off, letting them flutter to the floor.

The door clicks open and Mike jumps violently, whirling. It’s Nancy. Clad in pajamas, hair loose around her freckled shoulders. Her record player in her arms. She enters without permission, closes the door behind her, and sets the record player on his desk. She plugs it in, twists the volume up and it begins blasting Madonna. Mike looks at her in confusion.

“So they can’t hear,” she says quietly, approaching so he can hear her over the music. “What in the hell is going on?”

He’s still half-sobbing - _blubbering,_ his father’s voice sneers in his head. He covers the lower half of his face with a palm to hide the worst of it, using the other hand to grab onto things with rubbery fingers and shakily shove them into the suitcase. Barely aware of what he’s packing.

He manages to sputter out, “I c-can’t go to one of tho-oh-ose doctors, I won’t, I have to - to -” He cuts off to wipe his face on a shirt he just picked up off the floor, mopping up snot and tears, regaining at least a modicum of dignity.

“What the hell are you talking about? What doctors? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me!” he snaps, trying to convince himself as much as her.

She pitches her voice low. The obnoxiously peppy music almost drowns her out. “Is it about the Upside Down?”

He turns back to packing. “No, not that.”

His movement is cut off as she grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at her. She waits until he meets her eye and then firmly, simply says, “Mike. Tell me what’s going on.”

And because they’re going to tell her anyway, and because he’s beyond caring at this point, Mike just takes a deep, shuddering breath, and says, “Mom and Dad found out that I’m queer.”

Something changes in Nancy’s gaze - some glimmer, deep in her eyes - but her face only gives the slightest twitch of surprise before she smooths it out.

Mike goes on, “She f-found out about... me and Will?” and this dries out into a question, voice closing into a reedy wobble at the end, and Mike’s hand comes up to scrub over his face to hide how it’s crumpling again. Because this is harder to say. This is more precious to him.

Mike puzzled out that he like girls and guys years ago. And he’s a lot more comfortable with that part of himself now, after sorting through some of it with Will and some of it alone. So, that part’s not as hard to say to his sister. He is queer. His parents found out. These are facts. But the part about Will... that’s harder. Because what he has with Will is still new, fragile - fiercely guarded. And worse, he feels like he failed. Like he failed Will. He allowed this to happen. He must have left that picture lying around somewhere, and now... now everything is falling apart.

“They want me to get...”

“Conversion therapy?” Nancy finishes. She lets go of his shoulders, her eyes flashing. Her voice hardens to a keen edge. “Are you?”

“No!”

“Good.”

Mike looks at her. Her jaw is set, her eyes hard. She’s angry - but, for once, not at him. Her eyes flick from him to the closed door to the suitcase.

“You’re leaving?” It’s phrased as a question, but he can tell she’s not really asking.

He’s so raw, so close to the edge, that even that simple sentence makes his throat ache and begin to close again. He has to move. He starts shoving items around in the suitcase, not really organizing, just keeping his hands busy. “They said if I stayed I’d have to...” He still can’t say it. It’s too sore, too soon.

He keeps his eyes down, preparing himself for another argument. She’s not gonna be happy with him, and he knows that. So when she does speak, he’s already prepared with an answer. “Now? Tonight? But it’s insane out there. There’s gotta be two inches of water on the roads. You’ll get washed away.”

As if to reinforce her point, the rain redoubles on the roof, roaring for a beat or two before slacking off to a hard patter again.

“Exactly. They’d never expect me to leave now. And -” He throws his arms out in a gesture of defeat. “I’ve gotta get out of here, Nance. Now. Before they try to convince me again. Whatever else they have to say, I don’t wanna hear it. I just - I need to go. I need to go.”

His parents expect the conversation to continue in the morning. That’s twelve hours of painful, tense waiting for Mike - and twelve hours of time for them to plan, regroup, come up with new arguments and new angles. And he will _not_ have that conversation again. He’ll be long gone by the time they realize he’s already made his decision.

She doesn’t try to argue with him. She doesn’t even ask where he’s going. They both know. She just works her jaw for a moment, arms folded in front of her, gripping her elbows in her palms. And then she nods, moves to his dresser, and begins pulling out pairs of jeans. “I’ll cover for you as long as I can,” she says, selecting a small assortment of clothes and piling them on the bed. Jeans, shorts, tees, underwear, a sweatshirt. “By morning they’ll be looking for you, but I can keep them off your trail until then. And I’ll talk to Holly,” she adds as an afterthought. “I’m sure you don’t want her getting _their_ explanation first.”

She’s about halfway through Tetris-ing his clothes into the suitcase when Mike tackle-hugs her.

“Ugh, gross. You’re all snotty,” she mutters, but she winds her slender arms around him like a vice anyway. He can’t bring himself to let go, and she doesn’t either. He’s taller than her, now, but he feels about twelve years old when she squeezes him, her sweet-herbal perfume surrounding him. “It’s okay,” she says, quietly - and he can’t tell if she means the snot, or the situation in general, or if that was her expression of acceptance. _It’s okay that you’re queer. I’ll still hug you. I’ll help you pack. I’ll cover for you. You lost your family but you still have a big sister._

She waits for him to pull away first.

Nancy ducks out of the room, and when she comes back a few minutes later she’s carrying a toiletry bag presumably full of his things. Mike, meanwhile, sets about gathering his most necessary possessions. The toiletry bag, the clothes. His set of _Lord of the Rings_ , which - yes, he breathes in relief, still has Will’s letter tucked into _The Two Towers_ . Several drawings from Will and a couple from Holly, as well as a birthday card from the Party, which he quickly takes down from the cork board on his wall. Stephen King’s _It,_ because he never did finish reading it and it’s nice and thick - lots of material to get through. And then, because he would feel guilty about leaving them behind, he packs a few more books for good measure. He slips his most recent notebooks into his backpack, as well as his radio. He dumps his savings jar into a bandanna and ties it up tight, and stuffs that into his backpack too - his monetary worth now equaling a grand total of $33.74. He wants to get the D &D things, but they’re in the basement.

What else? He grabs his flashlight from his desk and packs it, as well as a couple random comics. Then he digs through his closet until he finds the length of rope that the Party used to try to put up a sheet tent for camping, once, years ago. He can use it to tie the suitcase onto his bike. What else is there? Some clothes, a couple books, some mementos, a handful of cash tied up in a bandanna. His life in a suitcase. It seems like so much and so little at once.

Nancy slips out of the room again, hissing, “Stay here,” and closes the door softly behind her. She’s gone for the length of an entire song. Mike wants to shut the record off, but it’s drowning out their conversation from any prying ears. And anyway, he’s not sure he could deal with silence right now. He sits gingerly on the end of his bed, looking around at his childhood bedroom. Wondering if he’ll get the chance to come back for the rest of his stuff. Wondering if he’ll ever see it again. Wondering if his plan will actually work. After all, the Byers are under no obligation to take him in. Sure, they’d let him stay for a few days - but after that? Where does he go if they’re not willing to embrace another hungry mouth into their home? Not that he’d blame them. He wouldn’t want to be abruptly saddled with himself, either.

When Nancy comes back, the record has reached _Papa Don’t Preach._ She’s holding a manila folder, thick with papers. She holds it out.

“Birth certificate. Documents. Records. I got everything I could... might have missed some stuff. Keep this _safe_ , okay?” She twitches it out of his reach just as he’s about to grab it. “ _Don’t_ lose it.” She hands it over. Mike wraps it in a plastic bag to keep it dry and slips it into his backpack, safely sandwiched between two notebooks.

They stand in the middle of the room for a moment before Mike realizes, that’s it. The suitcase is full; the rain isn’t going to get any better. He has no more reason to hang around. The song blasts through the room, filling up the silence between them.

_“The one you warned me all about; the one you said I could do without; we're in an awful mess. And I don't mean maybe, please. Papa don't preach, I'm in trouble deep. Papa don't preach, I've been losing sleep; but I made up my mind, I'm keeping my baby.”_

“Right,” Mike says, stiffly. “Um. I should go.”

She nods. It could be his own watery vision, but he thinks he sees a touch of pink around her eyes and the tip of her nose. “I’ll stay in here tonight,” she says, and then nods at the room. “So it sounds like there’s someone in here. Can you climb out the window?”

He heaves his backpack on and pulls the loop of rope over one shoulder. “I can try.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. Steve used to do it all the time.”

He would laugh, if it weren’t for the circumstances.

Nancy slides his window open. Slowly. Inch by inch, so the noise doesn’t reverberate through the walls of the house. Rain billows into the room on a cold gust of wind, and Mike’s stomach twits with a pang of nerves as he steps up to the frame. Cold drops pepper his skin.

“Don’t fall and break your neck,” she advises, deadpan. “I’ll throw your suitcase down after you.”

He nods, throws one leg over the frame, and resists the strong urge to take one more look back. He ducks through and crawls out onto the slick-grainy tiles of the roof below his window. The rain wets down his hair immediately, freezing cold on his scalp, running down the back of his neck into his shirt. He nearly slips and falls trying to shuffle across the roof, to the side where he can scramble down the woodpile. Everything is cold and soaked through with rain, and when he hits the grass his sneakers sink right in, mud and water oozing up around his ankles.

Nancy’s silhouette appears in his window, leans out, and before he’s ready she hurls the suitcase over the lip of the roof. It flips end-over-end and he just barely catches it, half-falling in the process.

His head keeps snapping towards the windows of the house as he fumbles at the rope, trying to secure the unwieldy suitcase behind the seat of the bike. It’s not nearly as easy as he assumed, and every second that he spends beside the house is another second that he might be caught. He has to get away from the windows before somebody looks out. But, at last, he manages it.

His sister must be watching him from the open window, because he can still hear the Madonna record playing as he jogs the bike across the lawn, jumps onto the seat, and pushes off. He doesn’t dare look back.

* * *

 The suitcase makes it nearly impossible to gain momentum or maintain balance. He comes within half a degree of keeling over with every turn, and it seems to take three times as much effort to pedal or steer. He hasn’t gone three blocks before his arms and legs begin to ache, lactic acid simmering away in his muscles. It’s like riding up a steep hill, lugging all that weight, and his bike jolts and swerves with a mind of its own.

He just has to make it to Will’s house. He just has to make it that far, and then the day is over, and he can rest. More than anything, he just wants to press himself to Will and go to sleep and forget about everything.

The rain isn’t playing around. It lashes over him, stinging his skin even through the hoodie, running into his eyes, turning him numb, soaking through his clothes. The tires of his bike fling water up his legs, spraying him from below while the rain drives down on him from above. His bangs hang in his eyes and he can barely see, but he knows better than to lift a hand to swipe them away. He’s white-knuckling the handles, using all of his strength to keep control of the bike. The shimmering reflection of streetlights streaks along the wet roads and sidewalks, throwing an eerie glow over the world. Once he reaches the edge of town the streetlights become more and more infrequent, fading out until he’s riding in the dark. Pedaling hard, leaning over the handlebars, panting with effort.

In the dark, he doesn’t see the patch of mud. The bike slams to a halt all at once, jarring his arms with the shock. The wheels are stuck in half a foot of sticky clay-mud. He has to dismount and yank it free, shuddering with shock and cold, hoping and praying that his knotwork holds up until he reaches the Byers’. He thinks maybe he’s crying again - he can’t tell if the water on his cheeks is tears or rain, and he can’t tell if he’s sobbing or just huffing with effort. Regardless, he tells himself to _get a fucking grip, Wheeler,_ and gets back on the bike.

He can barely see where he’s going. His vision is so smeared and glossy with tears and rainwater, points of light splintering into prisms, that everything is a blur. The rain is a constant, heavy force, flung at the earth by the gusting wind. It’s coming down so hard that a fine spray bounces back from the asphalt, seeming to emit its own glow, playing tricks on his eyes. But he’s approaching the edge of the woods, now, swerving heavily to avoid the potholes that plague these back roads and -

Headlights. Right in his face. A car horn, blaring, blasting in his ears.

The corner of the fender avoids clipping him by half an inch. The car shoots off down the road behind him in a spray of water, hoking again for good measure - but Mike pitches forward. He turned so sharply to avoid being flattened that the front tire twisted sideways, and he has about a quarter of a second to think _oh fu-_ before he smashes into the ground, skids, rolls, comes to a stop. One handlebar spiked straight into his stomach when he want down, digging deep, and for a moment all he can do is lie there. Curled around his stomach on the ground, gasping, trembling. His skin stings when he finally pushes himself upright. The asphalt grated all the skin off his knees, the heels of his hands, and his knuckles.

He’s bleeding and limping when he rights the bike, and this time he doesn’t bother getting back on. He just holds the handles and walks, steadily, breath hitching every time that bruise in his stomach aches. All at once he’s acutely aware of just how lost he is. He knows his physical location, but the rest of his life? He can’t go back home. He just lost his family - as much as he wanted to escape them, sometimes, they were still his family. His sisters. His mother. And even his father, useless though he is. The only life he’s ever known, torn from him within the space of an hour. He’s adrift. No home. No family. No car. No college funds or possessions except what he’s carrying in the faded periwinkle blue hardshell suitcase on the back of his bike, which is slowly but surely getting soaked. He really hopes his books survive.

The last half mile of his journey is slow going. He’s slogging through two inches of water, limbs frozen down to the bone, struggling to absorb the enormity of what just happened. Completely unsure of what the next few days hold for him - much less every day of his life after that. Where does he go if Joyce is, understandably, less than enthused about him crash-landing in her house? Could he couch-surf? Could he live with his spunky but vaguely senile grandma in the city? What about the last year of school? Could he live in Hawkins under a bridge somewhere until college?

For one weak, shameful moment he considers turning around. Crawling back home. But then he thinks about what that would mean, and he pushes forward. The Byers’ porch light appears through the trees as he turns onto their long driveway, the pinprick of light sending one last wave of strength through his limbs until - finally - he’s at the porch steps.

He unties his suitcase from the bike and wrestles it onto the porch, setting it aside - out of the rain, but also out of view of the door. Because somehow he can’t bring himself to show up at their doorstep with a suitcase, waiting expectantly for them to take pity on him. So when he knocks on the door it’s just him, empty-handed, his bike gleaming in the porch light behind him, leaning up against the railing.

The door swings open before he’s prepared, and there’s Joyce, still wearing her work clothes. Her face scrunches up in confusion. And then her eyes move down, taking in his face, his dripping-wet clothes, the blood darkening the knee of one pant leg and the forearm of the opposite sleeve. He opens his mouth to say something, but - what can he say? His own eyes drop to his shoes, vaguely embarrassed at how pathetic he must look right now. Puffy-eyed and shivering, with his hair plastered to his skull and dripping into his face.

Without a word, she sweeps him into the house.

* * *

 He’s attracted a small crowd, but not Will - yet. The door of Will’s room is closed, the beat of his music audible from within. Jonathan, on the other hand, was in the kitchen when Mike knocked. He hovers nearby as Joyce pulls a towel out of the closet and starts buffing it over Mike’s hair and clothes like he’s a little kid, asking question after question. Chester barks, then whines when he smells the blood and sees that one of his humans is upset. He tries to jump up and lick Mike’s face but Joyce pulls him down, so he pads around them in circles, occasionally pushing a cold, wet nose against the back of Mike’s hand.

Jonathan and Mike have never been especially close, but they they’ve known each other long enough to consider each other friends - if only through proximity. So when he sees Mike’s bloody hands and knees, he just says, “I’ll get the first aid kit.” And goes to fetch it from the bathroom.

Joyce keeps trying, repeating, “What happened to you? What happened?”

Mike doesn’t even know where to begin. Finally, in a voice that sounds so disgustingly weak, he says, “Can I stay here tonight?”

She’s quick to say, “Of course. Yeah. Did...” There’s suspicion in her voice, and Mike gets the strangest feeling that she _knows_ when she says, “Did something... happen?”

The music in Will’s room stops and his door opens. A beat later he emerges, wearing gray boxers and a battered, faded-red _Enjoy Coke_ tee. His hair is rumpled, his face a little shiny with oil that he hasn’t washed away yet, and his fingers are smudged with a cool palette of color - he’s been painting. There’s a smudge of gray-blue on his forearm, a streak of peach just beside his nose. He’s carrying a jar of cloudy gray water, a paintbrush sticking out of it, on his way to the bathroom sink with a far-off, absorbed expression, like he’s still deep in his artistic process. And Mike is so overwhelmingly glad to see him. He almost bolts forward and scoops Will up then and there, remembering just in time that they have an audience.

And then Will catches sight of Mike. Soaking wet and bloody, muddying up the living room floor with his dirty shoes, fending off Joyce’s well-meaning toweling attempts.

His eyes widen and he abandons the jar on the hall table immediately, striding forward until he reaches his boyfriend. Reaching up to ever-so-gently take Mike’s face in his hands, scanning him, those hazel eyes flicking over him in a flurry of anxious examination. “What the hell?” is his opening line. “Mike - what the _hell_? What happened, are you okay? Did somebody hurt you? Talk to me, tell me.”

Will is in full boyfriend-mode, audience be damned, and Mike doesn’t even bother to send him a frown of reprimand. He can’t muster up the energy to care anymore. He just leans into Will’s touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he breathes. Will’s voice has tilted up an octave higher than usual in concern, and he thumbs lightly at the scrape on Mike’s temple. He picks up Mike’s hands and turns them over, hissing when he sees the gouges on his knuckles, calling to Jonathan to hand over the first aid kit. Mike stops him before he can crack the white plastic case open. If he doesn’t say it now, he doesn’t know if he ever will.

“Will,” he says, and Will pauses, brows scrunched up in worry.

Mike swallows. He won’t cry again, not now, he won’t, he _won’t_ \- he’s stronger than that, damnit. He’s not a baby. He’s not going to cry. He clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth ache and looks up at the lumpy popcorn ceiling. When he looks down again, Will is watching him, waiting.

He says it under his breath, low enough that maybe the others won’t hear. “My parents know.” Will goes stiff, and Mike spits out the worst part before he can lose his nerve. “They kicked me out.”

Will blinks, lips parting in a small inhale - but it’s Joyce that speaks first.

“They what?” Her voice is tight with anger. When Mike looks at her she’s already moving towards the phone. “They - oh, I’m gonna -”

Mike grasps at her sleeve, pulling her back from the phone before she can lift it. “No, no - no, don’t - they don’t know I’m here, they -”

Jonathan shoulders his way into the huddle, head swinging from person to person in concern and confusion. “Wait, wait, they _kicked you out_? For what? What happened?”

This is it. The moment of truth. Mike looks at Will, silently communicating, _We have to tell them, don’t we?_ Because even if they kept their silence, his parents would almost certainly blab anyway. Will nods with solemn eyes and Mike takes a breath, preparing himself, but suddenly he’s petrified. Terrified that this is just going to be a repeat of what happened in his house.

Normally he’s so good at saying something. Words are easy for him. But now, uncharacteristically, he feels himself shutting down. He freezes. His mind is completely blank, and everyone is waiting for an answer.

He croaks, “I can’t -” And he said he wouldn’t cry, but fresh moisture is swelling behind his eyes, trembling at his lashes until he blinks and it streaks down his face. Will pulls him into a hug and Mike folds into it, talking in jagged breaths into Will’s hair. “I can’t - do this again -”

“It’s okay,” Will murmurs. “It’s okay, I can do it. I’ll do it. Should I just...?”

_Should I just tell them?_

Mike sniffs. And nods. But maybe Will is a little nervous about proclaiming the truth, too, because instead of making a statement to the room he leans in and lowers his voice. “Was it me? Did they kick you out because of us?”

Mike straightens. Shakes his head with a wet snuffle. “No. No, it wasn’t you. It was just - it’s just me. It’s my fault. I -”

He hadn’t noticed it before, but there are tears in Will’s eyes, too. Magnifying the kaleidoscope-streaks of green and brown in his irises. A little prickle of static stings Mike’s hand when Will’s fingers brush his, but the warmth of Will’s palm soothes it away within seconds.

In the end, Mike doesn’t have to finish his sentence at all. Joyce wordlessly crushes them both into a hug before they can say anything, squeezing the breath out of them. Mike feels another arm wrap around his shoulder as Jonathan joins in. The rain reverberates over the roof of the one-story house, and over the noise, Will speaks up.

“So... I’m gay.”

Mike can’t help it. He snorts. The bout of unexpected laughter shakes his ribs, and then Will starts anxious-giggling too, and the awkward group hug jostles with the movement. Even Joyce and Jonathan half-laugh as the tension breaks.

Mike lifts a hand, pointing feebly to himself. “I’m, uh... yeah.”

“I know,” Joyce says.

Mike breaks down. Yet again. But this time, as he clings to Will like he’s the only lifeline in a storming ocean - the two of them sandwiched between Will’s brother and mother - he feels just a little better. It hurts, and he’s terrified, and nothing is okay. But for the first time tonight, the tears feel almost cathartic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, this isn't the end! Not quite.  
> Please do let me know what you thought, as always! I'm like super invested in this story and I love love love seeing what you guys think of it, especially as it gets into the last few chapters :)


End file.
